by Viki Storm
“We’re preparing to land,” I say.
“Already?” she says, slipping her arms through the harness and starting to fasten the buckles. Humans really are a primitive lot—no concept of spacetime, no mastery of even simple physics.
“No,” I say, trying to be gentle—but I can’t help the smile that comes to my lips. “We’re still several light-years away.”
“But you said we were getting ready to land,” she protests. Her fingers haven’t loosened from around the harness, as if she expects the ship to plummet in a fiery ball at any second.
“We are,” I say, “but it’s going to take a little while still. You can relax. I’ll let you know when you need to strap into the seat and tighten the harness.”
“Relax?” she scoffs, letting out a loud, humorless bark of laughter. “That will be the day.”
- - -
The Fendan atmosphere is blindingly white—or at least it seems like that to me. I’m used to the binary stars of Zalaryx, which refract more rich, yellow light-waves. Fenda orbits a bigger, hotter star that makes their sky appear white.
Jula isn’t handing the descent well. Her eyes are squeezed shut and her knuckles are white from the strain of clutching the harness.
“Everything is fine,” I say for the twentieth time, trying to reassure her that the landing is safe. “We already made it through the part that would kill us. We’re cruising now, just on our way to the docking bay. Look out the window.”
She relaxes a little and opens one tentative eye. We’re flying now at city speeds—slow, and with respect to the other ships that are in the air.
“Oh,” is all she can say as she gazes down at the Fendan capitol below.
“That was pretty much my first impression too,” I say. There are many buildings below us, though it’s not a particularly overpopulated planet. Most of their buildings are overwrought palaces and temples, plus many other buildings that are too big and ornate than strictly necessary. “Fendans go overboard on everything they do. They’re so damned rich from their mines they don’t know what to spend all their money on.”
“And you’re going to present me to the king wearing this?” she says, gesturing to the sheet she has wrapped around her body.
“Just like a female, to be concerned with vanities,” I say—but I’m just trying to rile her. I don’t know why, but I like to push her buttons. They’re easy to push, since everything makes her angry.
“These Fendans sound like fat cats, and if they’re anything like the fat cats we have on Earth, they’re very concerned with vanities. A bed sheet would not be a proper garment for a member of the Royal Harem.”
“I don’t know the word cat,” I say. “Is that a translation error?” I’m kidding her again, but truth is I hadn’t thought of that. Fenda is so rich with natural resources (qizo is only responsible for a portion of their wealth) that they’re freed up from the universal struggle most living organisms endure—that of finding food and mates. The Fendans have the luxury of free time—and, more importantly, the luxury of free energy. They can devote much of their focus to frivolous things like fashion and architecture.
“Other people care about clothing,” she says, ignoring my attempt to annoy her. “Not everyone can go around in leather breeches and whack anyone on the head who doesn’t agree with them.”
“Point taken,” I say, “but I don’t really know what else you could wear. We don’t have a lot of clothiers on Zalaryx, as you so astutely noted, and I think that any garments on Fenda would not be proper for you.”
“What do you mean, ‘proper?’” she says, taking that to be a direct challenge. But then again, it didn’t take me long to figure out that Jula takes everything as a direct challenge.
“I don’t mean inappropriate,” I say. “I mean that they wouldn’t be suitable for a human. Just wait until you see a Fendan—you’ll know what I’m talking about.”
“Great,” she says. “I’m picturing a snake with arms.”
“If you mean a serpentoid, you will be quite disappointed. But don’t worry about your garments. The fact that you’re a human will be sufficiently novel to excuse any deficiencies in your dress. In fact, it’ll probably be all the more endearing.”
“I’m not sure I want to endear myself to the Imperator,” she says.
“If you’re smart, you do,” I say earnestly.
We dock and there are two guardsmen already waiting to escort us to the Imperator. The guardsmen are not Fendans, however, but rather Snarlaqs from a neighboring planet. Fendans import many laborers from Snarlaq as Fendans are not particularly inclined to do any work they consider laborious—which is most work.
Snarlaqs are tall, but thin—their appendages longer in proportion than those of a Zalaryn or human. They sort of creep me out—those long, thin arms and legs making them look stretched, as if they were pulled out of someone’s nightmare but didn’t want to go willingly.
“You’re the Zalaryn Ambassador?” one of them asks me. He must have had a language procedure performed, because his pronunciation is excellent.
“Yes,” I say, taking the promotion in my status. Ambassador sure beats my previous title of Drunken Gambler Mercenary. “I am Ayvinx—and I trust that the Imperator is expecting me.”
“He is,” the guardsman asks. “I am Ha’an, and I will escort you to him.”
“What is this?” the other guard asks, gesturing to Jula.
“The Imperator’s property,” I say, intending for my words to be full of the sort of smug authority that ambassadors and their ilk use when talking to underlings. Instead, I’m struck by the bitterness of the sentiment. She’s the Imperator’s property? My skin prickles at the idea—and I realize that the unholy grinding sound I hear is coming from my teeth. This female is no one’s property—and woe to the fool who thinks otherwise.
And am I the fool for thinking otherwise? Had I felt, somewhere deep down, that because I’d saved her from Tarlou she’d become mine?
“This way,” the guardsman says, and he leads us down a long flight of stairs. They’re carved out of a smooth, polished stone, glittering and reflecting the colors of the lights. The staircase is so seamless, so perfectly smooth, that I get the idea it was carved out of one gigantic piece of epidiode stone. The manpower involved in such a task would be staggering, and I hope it’s not so. A planet with such a surplus of spare time (and such a dearth of external threats) that it can carve a full flight of stairs from a single piece of stone? That’s surely a planet without a strong, practiced defense force.
I’m going to have my work cut out for me.
“The Imperator is at his sword,” Ha’an says. They lead us through the courtyard of the palace and it makes the Zalaryn Imperial Palace look like a shantytown tent. All of the fixtures gleam with expertly cut gems, our feet step upon polished stone walkways, and the window glass is a myriad of colors depicting various historical or religious events in Fendan culture.
“Did he say ‘sword?’” Jula asks me, leaning in close to whisper in my ear as we walk. Her hair brushes my bare shoulder and I can smell the oils coating the luxurious red strands.
“I hope not,” I say. Fendan weaponology is not primitive, strictly speaking—for to call it primitive would imply that weapons technology does indeed exist. But it isn’t very advanced compared with similarly-situated races.
The Fendan’s most formidable weapon? Their coinpurse. Fendans can buy their way out of most interplanetary disputes.
“Are they going to try to defend their mines from the Kraxx with swords?” Jula asks again. “I wasn’t alive for the Kraxx invasion of Earth, but I heard the Kraxx have these things…”
“I’m well-versed in weaponology and military history,” I say, a little harsher than I meant it—but I don’t need to be reminded how hopeless this mission of mine is. Unless Xalax sends a reinforcement regiment, I don’t know how I’m going to get a bunch of Fendans to be capable of defending their lunch money, let alone the most p
recious natural resource in the entire quadrant.
“Behold,” Ha’an says. He spreads his arm onto a courtyard richly shaded by tall trees on all sides. Birds roost on the branches and watch the festivities below. Assembled there’s a group of about ten Fendan… Warriors? They’re dressed in some sort of battle regalia that looks more befitting for a ceremony of state, like a coronation or funeral, than combat training.
I can spot the Imperator at once: he’s the most decorated male in the courtyard, wearing a helmet with gilded gold edges and a long spire protruding from the center. Atop the spire is a large gemstone—red and cut to catch the light even in the shade. His jacket is stiff from all the ribbons and medallions and insignia on the breast. The breeches he wears are just as unsuited to combat—long, tight-fitting and surely restricting his range of motion.
“My liege,” I say and bow low, as is the Zalaryn custom. I’m not sure what the Fendan custom for greeting a king is—but if their ornate architecture and dress are any indication, I’m probably expected to drop to my knees and salaam wildly, kissing his boots and reciting epic verse poetry.
I tug on Jula’s arm and she too bows, but her posture is stiff and her hand trembles in mine. I know what she’s thinking: I’m to be gifted to him?
It’s hard to describe a Fendan. They’re as wide as they are tall, which is to say about four feet. Their bellies are round and protrude prodigiously. Their limbs are short, but strong, as they need significant musculature in order to carry around such a surplus of flesh. Their skin is the color of the raw ore from which qizo is mined: light brown mixed with orange. Their eyes and mouths are much like ours, but their noses are rather peduncular: loose bulbs of cartilage that bob and jiggle around.
And, yes, I’m to give Jula to their Imperator for his pleasure.
Images flash through my head—none of them welcome, none of them good.
The Fendan Imperator waddling between her legs and placing a pudgy hand on her thigh. Or another: Jula straddling him as the Imperator reclines in a lush bed of furs and silk pillows, with her bouncing up and down as he commands her to go faster. Or Jula on all fours, wincing in pain and disgust as he enters her from behind and ruts like a farm animal.
And it’s at that moment I realize I can’t give her to him.
It’s at that moment I realize she’s mine.
We stand before the Fendan Imperator and I realize that it’s my fate to become his plaything—his pleasure slave, his concubine, or whatever else you want to call it. I’m just a casualty in a larger war. I must do my part—no matter how unpleasant—just as a soldier must give his life on the battlefield.
I wish my brains had been obliterated—that my memories and freewill had been erased. I wish Ayvinx had gotten onto Tarlou’s ship just an hour later, after the needle went into my brain and the electroshock pulses erased my entire identity.
Because then I wouldn’t care right now.
I’d be drooling and staring off into the trees, looking at the pretty birds. The Imperator could take me to his chambers and possess my body—but my mind would be elsewhere. My mind would be gone.
But no. I’m here. I’m cognizant. I’m keenly aware of my fate.
I’m a pawn—a thing to be given as mightier planets shake hands and forge alliances. My virtue, my body, and my freedom—traded away, given by someone who never owned them in the first place.
I have been Zalaryn property since I was Marked at twelve years old, but it was hard to remember that fact. I’ve lived off the grid, eked out an existence from the scraps and ruins of New York City. I’ve always felt free—I never answered to anyone. I stopped following orders when I was twelve.
On my twentieth birthday, I didn’t report to the Zalaryn outpost. Why should I? I was Arachne, purveyor of black-market coats and clothing. Friend to cold proles all over the city—and enemy to textile mills, weavers and tailors.
Now who am I? Just an exotic cunt for this spoiled, fat old king to play with a few times until he gets bored. To him, I’ll just be some human female—some trifle gifted by the Zalaryn ambassador.
But to me? He’ll be the destroyer of my innocence. The ruiner of my world.
“And who is this fine creature?” the Imperator says as I stare at his feet, unable to look at his loathsomely ugly face. He steps towards me and I smell his sweat—fetid as a carcass in summertime. His nose hangs crudely from his face, a mass of pustules and fatty lumps.
“This is one of our Marked human females,” Ayvinx says, “A treasure and our planet’s greatest resource. She is the future of our race, the creator of life—and she is…”
Ayvinx seems to choke on the words, and I have a moment of hope that he’s changed his mind—that he can’t go through with it. Perhaps Ayvinx is jealous and covetous, and decided that he wants me for himself. I could deal with that. I would vastly prefer to be Ayvinx’s pleasure slave than the Imperator’s.
I remember how Ayvinx strapped me into the spaceship seat, my bare breasts on display for his hungry stare, my nipples stiffening into little, pink nubs as I waited for his touch. Waited and was… disappointed? Yes, if I’m being honest, I was disappointed when he kept his hands to himself. He could have taken me—claimed my body as his right, as just compensation for saving me. As punishment for my bad attitude.
A tiny bolt shoots between my legs, pinpointing on my clit, and I think about how this is the most inappropriate time to be having dirty thoughts about the big brute who’s giving me to this fat, ugly king—like I’m the bonus of a diplomatic treaty.
“She is a gift to you,” Ayvinx finally says. He sounds like he has a mote of dust stuck in his throat—like his body literally tried to cut off the passage of air to prevent him from speaking. Unless I’m just imagining it, because I desperately want him to be reluctant. As if that somehow makes this all better.
“A human female!” the Imperator clasps his hands together and I see droplets of sweat come off them like a sunburst. “How delightful!”
The Imperator beckons and I give Ayvinx a fearful look. He nods his head in the direction of the Imperator and purses his lips like a disappointed school teacher. I take a step towards the Fendan. He’s smiling and his teeth are the same brownish color as his hide. He comes up about chest-high to me—that dreadful, bulbous nose flopping around the whole time.
“Nice to meet you,” I say in the Fendan tongue. It’s hard to explain, but if I’m surrounded by another language, my brain will translate everything automatically. Half the time, I’m no longer even sure what language I’m actually speaking.
“And smart!” he says. “A perfect Fendan accent!”
“She’s one of our finest females,” Ayvinx says. I’m standing between Ayvinx and the Imperator, aware that my ownership is being transferred between the two males. I’ve been on my own so long—and now I’m like a shiny aggie that two kids are trading before a big game of marbles.
I look over my shoulder at Ayvinx, waiting for him to do something. I’m not sure what he can do at this point—but surely this can’t be it: handed over so unceremoniously.
The Imperator of such a wealthy, important planet—I’m sure he’s constantly being showered in gifts. My entire life has changed. I’ve been captured and caged, but to the Imperator it’s as meaningless as receiving a golden goblet from a visiting dignitary.
“I can hardly see her,” the Imperator says. “Female! Disrobe now. I wish to lay eyes on my newest concubine.”
The Imperator looks at me eagerly—as do the ten Fendans that are standing in the courtyard. We interrupted their swordplay and now the aliens are curious. I give Ayvinx another fearful look, but the Imperator snaps his fingers. They are short and stubby, with thick yellowed nails. “Quickly now,” he says. “Let me inspect my new prize so I can get back to training. War is coming, you know. We must be prepared.”
I touch my fingertips to the knot at my shoulders, where I’ve bound the sheet around my body. My face burns hotly at the idea of displ
aying my nude body to these odd little creatures.
Why is it that males all around the universe are so obsessed with parting females from their clothing?
It must be a law of nature. All of the aliens have stopped to stare at me, waiting for me to disrobe and bare my body to the crowd.
“Excuse me, your Eminence,” Ayvinx says quietly, into the Imperator’s ear. “Humans are curious creatures. They’re uncomfortable with nudity—especially the females. She’d find it quite uncomfortable to disrobe before such an audience.” I give Ayvinx a grateful look, but his eyes are locked on the Imperator’s. At least he’s willing to stand up for me—to give me at least the pretense of dignity and free will.
“Nonsense,” the Fendan king says, waving his plump hand. “I’m sure her nude form is marvelous to behold. She should be proud to let my personal retinue of high-bred Fendan warriors gaze upon her sex. It’s a compliment that we desire her to disrobe. Go on now, female. Present yourself to your new master and his warriors.”
I don’t know what to do. It shouldn’t bother me that much, considering the fact that I was nude and bound on Tarlou’s ship before a crowd of spiteful Zalaryns—who wanted to do a lot more than just ‘gaze upon my sex.’ But it does bother me.
It bothers me because I have to do this of my own free will. Tarlou’s brutes strong-armed me and forced my clothes off. They forced me onto the table and into the restraints. But now? I’m expected to freely—willingly—disrobe in front of the Fendan courtiers. In front of the two, creepy Snarlaq guardsmen.
And once I start down this path of silent acquiescence, I fear it’ll be easier to do it the next time… And the time after that…
Before long, I’ll be a smiling, obedient plaything.
It’ll be like I’d been gentled after all.
And Ayvinx will witness my shame again. He’ll witness my humiliation as my body is exposed to a horde of other males.
“Honorable Imperator,” Ayvinx says, “please respect the human’s customs. They consider nudity to be shameful. It is a sacred rite and high honor to disrobe in front of another. It’s a privilege she’ll confer only to those she deems worthy.”