by Viki Storm
I stare at him in horror. They can actually do that? It seems impossible, but then again, everything about my situation seems impossible. “We haven’t had to do such a thing in ages,” Tarlou continues. “The females rarely give us any trouble. But we do possess the technology.” He waggles the needle in front of my face. “Right here.”
“What a choice you’re giving me,” I hiss.
“You always have a choice,” he says. “Everyone always does exactly what they want.”
“What’s my other choice?” I ask.
“We can break you,” he says. “That’s another method at our disposal. We’ll show you your true place in our society. You are here to serve the needs of the Zalaryn male. We will train you. We’ll break you. We’ll fuck every hole you’ve got until you’re begging for us to relent—until you scream and promise to be a good little female and obey any order, submit to any command.”
Is this a cruel joke? Is this how he gets me to babble, and promise and swear allegiance to Zalaryx?
It’s got to be a ploy—a bluff.
Doesn’t it?
He can’t actually mean to scramble my brain—to turn me into a drooling simpleton.
The other way… breaking me… I’m sure they’d do that in a heartbeat. One look at the males crowded around this metal table, their eyes fixed upon my bound, nude body—of course they’d love the chance to try and break me.
“Okay,” I say, my voice nothing but a cracked whisper.
“What’s that?” Tarlou says. “Speak up.”
“I’ve made my choice,” I say. But I can still barely speak louder than a gasp. Tarlou leans in, his face mere inches from mine.
I take a deep breath… and spit into his face.
The aliens are stunned into a shocked silence, but Tarlou only laughs.
“You have made your choice indeed,” he says, using the back of his hand to wipe his face. “First we break you. Then—just for good measure, just to be sure—you are going to be gentled.”
It’s shit like this that makes me want to leave this planet. It’s like all the training, and fighting, and raiding pulverizes what precious few brain cells we have into pulp.
I’ve seen some terrible things in my time, but this is the worst in recent memory. There’s a group of five males surrounding a human female. She’s strapped to a table, totally nude, with her arms pinioned overhead and her legs spread wide.
There’s only one reason to restrain her in a position like that.
She’s struggling, pulling on the bonds even though the rhomanium will not break for anything less than a white-hot flame of pure sunslight.
“Come on,” she taunts. “You want to put it in my mouth? Go ahead. I have all thirty-two of my teeth. Kill me afterward, but it won’t make your cock grow back. Who wants to go first?”
It’s amusing, her fierce spirit.
Too bad it’s going to get her killed.
“What the holy void is going on?” I shout. The males look up—most of them possessing the decency to look ashamed. I recognize Tarlou; he’s a bastard from a long line of bastards. Having him in charge of the Marked females is a little like having the town drunkard in charge of the freykka barrels.
“What are you doing here?” he asks me, obviously upset that whatever cruelty he has planned is being interrupted.
“If you were doing your job, you would have received the comm from our esteemed High King Xalax. Instead,” I gesture to the female, “you’ve decided that tonight is the night you’re finally going to lose your virginity and mate with a female.”
“A comm from the King?” he asks. He must be at least a little awed, because he ignored my insult. Tarlou reaches for his comm-panel and pages through, trying to find the message. The others look like they’re practicing their teleportation skills, trying to will themselves anywhere else by thinking about it really hard.
“I need a human female to take with me to Fenda,” I say.
“Are you just going to stand there smirking, like you just won the prize for biggest asshole—which, I suppose, is an accomplishment on this planet. Or are you going to untie me?” the female asks me.
And now I take the time to look at her. I didn’t really see her before. All I saw was a female being abused at the hands of my fellow Zalaryns. But now I see her.
Her hair is deep red, like the setting suns. Her skin is smooth and pale, and you just know that it will be soft to the touch. Her full breasts jiggle as she struggles against the bonds, light pink nipples pointing straight up towards the ceiling. Hair that same deep red is covering her sex. She’s trying to keep her knees together, but when she shifts her legs a certain way, it uncovers a flash of pink.
She’s a sight to see, helpless and offered up like this. I can see how a lesser male would succumb to the power of his lust.
I’m no hero—no champion of the weak. But this display is beyond shameful. Binding a woman like this—using the powerful and sacred act of intercourse as a way to punish and control. There’s no excuse for it. This act stains the soul of the perpetrator.
“She’s crazy, this bitch,” Tarlou says. “A fugitive too. She failed to report on her twentieth birthday. Look…” He points at her shoulder, and instead bearing the barcode tattoo that all Marked females possess, there’s nothing but a shiny, lumpy scar—as if she tried to burn off her tattoo. She must not have known that the tattoo ink is infused with rhomanium fibers that are used to track the females. “Back on Earth they call her Arachne, and she’s full of poison alright. We have permission to gentle her before she leaves the ship.”
“Gentle?” I ask, astounded. “Please tell me that’s a figure of speech.” Gentling is a procedure that zaps the brain, rendering the target with all the wits of a stillborn goat. It’s a procedure reserved for troublesome livestock. “Please tell me that five Zalaryns can control one human female without having to alter her cranial anatomy.”
“She’s a murderer,” Tarlou says. He has not a shred of shame. “She deserves to rot in an Earth prison cell, but instead she gets to come to our planet and become some rich merchant’s breeding mate. Lucky she is—but too stupid to know it.”
“Yes,” I say, slowly. “Stupid and violent. A very bad combination. Leads to shocking displays of aggression—like five trained warriors against one scrawny human female.”
“You better watch yourself,” Tarlou says.
“I have done nothing wrong,” I say. “I’m here on royal orders. Did you read the comm? Or is reading a skill you decided would hold you back in your pursuit of a life dedicated to excessive cruelty?”
“I’ve seen the comm,” Tarlou says. “You can take a female. Go down the corridor to the holding chamber. There’s a blond one there that’s nice and plump. Looks a little like a Fendan herself.”
“Thanks, but no thanks,” I say. “I’m going to take this one.” I say the words before I even know that I’m going to say them. I have no choice, though. A female like this won’t last three minutes on our planet.
Her fierce spirit is amusing, but it’ll get her killed. Zalaryns don’t, generally, have much of a sense of humor.
“You’re not taking me anywhere,” she says—as if she wants to stay put. As if I just interrupted a grand old party and she was having the time of her life.
“Would you prefer me to leave you?” I say. I have no intention of leaving her. Gentling is a fate worse than death—and if this close call didn’t chasten her and teach her to hold her tongue, then nothing will.
She wouldn’t last as a rich merchant’s breeding mate. She wouldn’t last as a brothel pleasure slave.
Her defiance and violent outbursts would earn her a swift summary execution before the week is over.
“I’d prefer you to kick this jackass in the balls, seeing as how I’m unable to move my foot,” she says. I must remember to ask her later what a jackass is. I don’t need much imagination to realize it’s an insult, but whatever it is, it doesn’t translate to the Zala
ryn tongue.
“Release her bonds,” I say.
“It would be a great insult to take this void-spawned bitch to Fenda,” Tarlou says.
“You’re an expert on interplanetary relations?” I ask him. I see one of his henchmen raise the corner of his mouth in a smirk.
“I have more common sense than you,” Tarlou says. “You’d be better off giving the Fendan Imperator a hive of angry apioids. Cause him less trouble.”
“I’ll worry about the insults,” I say—though I will admit (to myself only) that Tarlou makes a valid point.
The Fendan Imperator said that he wanted a human female to add to his harem—he was quite clear on that stipulation. The Fendans are a largely calm and tractable race; the abundant and valuable natural resources of their home planet have made them soft and weak. But the Imperator showed an uncharacteristic streak of anger when told that his planet was about to be besieged by a contingent of Zalaryn and Kraxx rebels. He threatened to cut off our supply of qizo minerals as punishment for letting a rebel group form. But, as rages usually do, it subsided—and he relented on the condition that we give him one of our Marked females for his harem.
Which is why I’m here.
“You’re not giving me to anyone,” the female shouts. Perhaps Tarlou is correct and she’s delusional. She seems to have an odd perception of reality.
“You have little choice in this matter,” I tell her, not unkindly. Taking her to Fenda is in her best interest—even if she’s unable to realize it right now.
A female like her would incur the wrath of the fiery Zalaryn temper and find herself executed before long. But on Fenda? Those fat sots are slow to anger—slow to wrath. She’s stubborn and pushy and her will cannot stand against the will of a Zalaryn male—the stubbornest and pushiest race in the quadrant.
But against a Fendan? By weeks’ end on Fenda, she’ll have the Imperator wrapped around her little finger.
“You’re a bigger fool than you look,” Tarlou says.
“I’ll take that a compliment,” I say, “because it’s obvious that I look every part the cunning mercenary.”
Tarlou grumbles and reaches across the table to deactivate the restraints. I know what’s going to happen—I can see everything unfold a second before it actually does.
He screams, and I think he’s the biggest fool of us all, exposing his face and neck to the female. When he lifts his head, blood pours down the side of his neck. I can see the red indentations from where her teeth sunk into his ear. Her lips are red, as if she’d spent the afternoon eating suns-ripened berries straight from the vine. She spits and sprays his own blood over his face.
Tarlou clouts her across the face, her own spray of blood shooting into the air.
My hand is on my anankah. My thumb flicks across the activation switch and I point it right at Tarlou’s chest. “Release her bonds,” I say, “and leave her unharmed—or else I’ll see that every bone in your weapon-hand is broken in no less than three places.”
Tarlou smiles at me. “That’s going to be hard to do,” he says, “from the dungeon. Take him to the peacekeepers for attempting to abduct a Marked female.”
The air is driven out of my lungs as two of the other bastards tackle me and shove me against the wall.
The last thing I feel before the room goes black are the ends of two anankahs digging into my back.
Did I just hear this new bastard say that he was going to give me to the ruler of some other planet? What the hell is going on here? Maybe one of those constables bonked me on the head with his nightstick and I’m having a hallucination.
Two of the aliens are pointing their weapons at the new bastard, who I think they said was named Ayvinx. Their weapons look a lot like the nightsticks that New York constables carry around, but I know better. These aliens aren’t fighting with polished sticks of hickory.
The two aliens flick a switch on their weapons and a high-pitched keening fills the air—like a mosquito that’s managed to burrow into your skull. I wouldn’t be surprised if the weapons started to spew flame, or acid—or both.
But before I can find out, the new bastard, Ayvinx, reaches both his hands behind his back and snatches the weapons from the aliens’ hands. They exchange a dumbfounded look, like kids who just got rooked in a rigged game of marbles.
Then Ayvinx spins around and raps each of them on the throat with their own weapons. They go down at once in a hissing, choking heap.
“Can we stop this nonsense?” he asks Tarlou. “I really must be going.”
“You’re making a big mistake,” Tarlou says, but he hits the button to release the rest of my bonds.
“Oh, I imagine I’m making more than one,” Ayvinx says. He takes my hand and while I know he means to help me off the table, it feels more like I’m being dragged.
I feel his eyes burn into my body, making my skin prickle all over. His stare creates a flood of burning heat. It’s not like when Tarlou or the other brutes were ogling me—that filled me with cold hate. I shake my head, trying to clear my thoughts. Ayvinx seems to read them, and yells: “And get her garments.”
“She wore filthy rags when we apprehended her,” Tarlou says. “They’ve been burned.”
“Then get her a tunic or a robe. There’s got to be something on this ship,” Ayvinx says. He’s still holding onto my hand and it takes me a moment to realize something: the urge to run is… Gone. That panicky little flutter inside my chest is completely calm. It must be because I’m exhausted—too tired to run anymore.
I’ve been running ever since I was twelve. Ever since I stupidly walked into that first trap.
And I’ll be damned if I let myself fall into another one.
The last time someone rescued me, the last time I felt like I could stop running… But I can’t think about that. Not now.
“A robe? Why?” Tarlou says. “She’s just a human. Might as well get a nice look at those tits while you’re traveling to Fenda.”
“What excellent insight,” Ayvinx says. He pulls me down the corridor and I realize that I’m not getting a robe. This is perhaps the longest I’ve ever been nude in my entire life. I miss my coat and all its pockets—my leather leggings that are almost impossible to pull off. My scuffed boots with the blades tucked down the side. Then the alien leans over to me and whispers: “Wait until we get to my ship. I’ll explain everything.”
“Okay,” I say, but there’s no way I’m getting on his ship. The first chance I get, I’m out of here. I don’t care if I’m on their hellacious planet, I’ll find a way.
“I mean it,” he says. “No escaping. You won’t last fifteen minutes on our planet.”
Can he read my mind? Am I that obvious?
“You’d be surprised,” I say and we turn the corner. He’s taking long, fast strides and it’s a struggle to keep up. He’s so tall—well over six-feet. His skin is a dark orange, like all his kind—but his is even darker, almost the color of a sun-worn brick. He’s very lean and muscular, but a little less bulky than the rest of the brutes. His arms are quick and almost graceful, but no less powerful—that much is clear by the grip he’s keeping on my hand.
“Actually, I’d be surprised if you lasted more than one minute,” he says. “A nude human female can’t just walk down the capitol streets and expect to escape into the shadows.”
That was very much what I’d been hoping. Damn.
“I don’t need your help,” I say again. I’m glad to be untied and off that cold metal table. Tarlou was dead serious about breaking me—then gentling me. I shudder to think about that. A fate worse than death—to be a dim and slow version of your former self. Still, I resent this Ayvinx character just waltzing in and scooping me up, and then rubbing it in my face about how lucky I am that he was there to save me.
“That’s good,” he says, “because what I’m offering you? It’s not exactly help.”
“It’s not?” I ask, raising an eyebrow at him. We come to a sealed door and he keys a few button
s until it slides open with a burst of cool air. He tugs me inside and the door slides shut automatically. It’s just an empty vestibule, small and cold. There’s another door and he keys it open.
“Not really,” he says. “Not according to the traditional definition of the word ‘help.’”
He prods me along and we enter another, smaller ship. “Is this your ship?” I ask.
“Sort of,” he says. “It belongs to the High King.”
“The High King?” I ask. I heard something about a King when he was arguing with Tarlou, but I couldn’t quite follow everything they said.
“Yes,” he says. “Come on, let me get this ship in the air and then I’ll find you something to wear.” He takes my hand and leads me straight down the central corridor of the ship. His grip is firm. Tight… Almost comforting.
It would be comforting—if I was stupid enough to trust him.
We get to the ship’s cockpit and he points to an empty seat while he busies himself at the control panels. He’s politely not looking at my naked body, but I still feel the need to cover myself up. I put an outstretched hand over my pubic hair and cross my other arm across my breasts as best I can.
“Can I have clothes?” I ask. My nudity is too shameful to bear. Even if he’s not fazed by it, I am.
“No,” he says, and before I can protest, he adds: “Not yet. I don’t even have any female garments, so you’d have to be creative.”
“I’d settle for a bed sheet and a pair of scissors,” I say.
“It’s a deal. Actually, you just reminded me. I have a present for you.”
“A present?” I ask. This isn’t good. Men never give presents out of the goodness of their hearts.
“Yes, a present, but we have to get out of here as fast as possible. Before the peacekeepers get here—and Tarlou will call the peacekeepers.”
“I thought you said something about being authorized by the High King,” I ask. I sit down in the chair, pulling my legs up and wrapping my arms around them to shield my body from his view.