by Viki Storm
It would have been comforting to have Ayvinx by my side then. Someone to look out for me, to protect me. Someone to smash skulls. I wouldn’t have made the same sort of mistakes.
I probably wouldn’t have ended up in jail at the age of twelve.
Ayvinx lets his foot up and the Fendan crawls up to his hands and knees. Ayvinx taunts the crowd of Fendan pupils, challenging the best among them to spar with him. I don’t blame them for staying silent. I wouldn’t want to face Ayvinx in the training yard. His quick, graceful swordsmanship is truly an art to behold. His arrogant assurance that he can strike down any opponent is so appealing.
One Fendan tentatively steps forward, volunteering to fight with Ayvinx. They circle each other a few times, the Fendan too scared to make a move. Ayvinx jabs with his sword and the Fendan jumps back. Ayvinx does not relent, he presses on the Fendan, swiping and jabbing with his sword. I know it’s just practice, but it’s bravery. It’s raw power.
And I think I like it.
Maybe he really can get me off this planet. He insists that he wouldn’t ask for anything in return—that he’d make no demands on my virtue.
And was I a little disappointed when he promised that? Maybe…
Maybe trading my virginity to him wouldn’t be such a bad deal, if it could get me off of this planet and set up somewhere safe. Somewhere the Zalaryns wouldn’t come looking for me—where I wouldn’t have to offer my body as a prize to scores of soldiers. Maybe I’m ready to lose my virginity, anyway. I’ve held onto it for so long—and for what? Waiting for the right man? That’s a laugh. It’s a valuable asset and if bartering with it can get me safely off this planet, then why not? It’s the least I can do for Ayvinx, who’d be risking a lot to help me.
Wait a second—did I just talk myself into offering my virginity to Ayvinx? Even though he swears not to require it as a condition of his help?
Or am I just getting worked up watching him trounce his Fendan pupils in the training yard?
When I get back to my tower bedroom, maybe I can touch myself again, like I did the other day. I can think about what it would feel like to have him on top of me, my legs wrapped around his waist. What it would feel like to have something inside me, something hard, and thick, spreading apart my lips—stretching out my tight inner walls.
Yes, I think I know what I’m going to do when I get back to my tower bedroom. What I’m going to do maybe twice.
“How lovely!” the Queen says. I didn’t even notice her arrival. I hastily stand up, hoping that she can’t see that my face is flushed red.
“Look mother,” Worra says, and shows off her little ragdoll. The other girls show the Queen their projects, in various stages of completion, and she takes the time to praise them all individually, pointing out something specific that she likes on each doll. The Queen is truly a kind woman. She should feel bitter jealousy towards me, a foreign female that was gifted to her husband for one purpose only. But she doesn’t. She’s treating me as kindly as she treats her daughters and nieces.
“You’ve taught them well,” the Queen tells me. “Come, walk with me.”
You don’t disobey a Queen—I know that much. I rise and stand at the Queen’s side as she walks leisurely around the courtyard, pausing here and there to smell flowers or talk to a Snarlaq servant. I’m amazed to see that she knows all the servants’ names, as well as details about their family and personal lives.
“How do you like it here?” the Queen finally asks me.
“Very well, My Queen,” I respond.
“You can speak truthfully,” she says, stopping and turning to look me in the eye. “I take no offense. I’ll not have you whipped for rude talk. Speak freely. The worst part of being a Queen is that everyone is too afraid to tell you the truth.”
“Of course, My Queen,” I say. “I wouldn’t disrespect you by telling lies.”
“Yet you say you like it here?” she asks, raising an eyebrow. She continues her walk, and I realize it’s remarkably graceful. She hardly waddles at all.
“I do like it here,” I say. “I like the palace, the courtyard. I like your girls. I like you.”
“But?” the Queen says. “I can sense a ‘but’ coming from a mile away.”
“I don’t like the purpose for which I’ve been brought here, if you catch my meaning.”
“Indeed, I do,” she says. “Who would?”
There’s a long pause as she plucks a flower from a nearby bush and then casually tears off the petals, letting them drop to the ground. It strikes me as a decadent gesture, but then again, there are plenty of flowers to spare. The courtyard garden is full of them. Not like the ruins of New York City, where the only thing that grows is mold on your last piece of bread.
“It’s my duty,” I say. “I don’t have to like it.”
“That is also true,” the Queen says. “The Imperator’s… offer has done a lot to improve the morale of the soldiers, I’m sad to say. Males are very easily motivated.”
“I’m surprised how similar males are all over the universe,” I say.
“You’d know better than me, as I have only ever lived on Fenda,” she says. “But our males are quite simpleminded in their pursuit of pleasure. And, unfortunately, it’s your duty, as you say. The Kraxx are an evil race—but you come from Earth, so you should know.”
“I’ve heard stories,” I say. “But the invasion was generations ago.”
“My Queen,” a guardsman approaches. It’s Ha’an. I have come to find out that he’s the Captain of the Royal Family’s personal guard. “I have a message from the Imperator for you.” He hands her a scroll. She breaks the wax seal and scans it quickly.
“Tell him ‘yes,’” she says, then crumples the paper and holds it out for Ha’an to take away. He nods and takes the crumpled scroll.
“My husband wishes to know if I’ll dine with him tonight,” the Queen explains. I’m shocked that a sheet of thick, luxurious paper like that was used so briefly, for so inconsequential of a communication. On Earth, paper is scarce, and we only use it for the most important purposes. “Of course I will,” she says as we walk down the path. “We all might have only days left to live.”
“I don’t think it’ll come to that,” I say. I glance over my shoulder at the training yard, where Ayvinx is wielding his sword. It’s a beautiful sight to behold.
“Of course you say that,” she says, a smile coming to her face. “You have much faith in the Zalaryn mercenary.”
“I…” I say. I was going to refute her claim, but I don’t know if that’s true.
“Don’t bother to deny it—it’s obvious. You get a certain look in your eyes when he’s around. Like right now, you stole a glance at him.”
I say nothing in my defense. “I said I wouldn’t dishonor you by telling lies,” I say.
“Good,” she says. “It’s obvious that you hope he’s the one who’ll win the little contest. But forget him, if you can. I wanted to talk to you about what comes after. Assuming there is an after. Would you want to stay here? Not as a member of the Royal Harem, but as my Chief Royal Seamstress?”
“As your Chief Royal Seamstress?” I ask, stunned. This is the closest to freedom and security I might ever get. I risk a glance at Ayvinx again, not caring that the Queen will notice. He says he’ll help me—but there’s no guarantee. Just a lot of unknowns. I had freedom on Earth—I did whatever the hell I wanted and answered to no one. But I didn’t have security. I lived in the shadows, alone, in constant fear of being apprehended by the constables or the Zalaryns. Here? On Fenda? I could do more or less as I pleased. I’d be under royal protection. Isn’t that what I’ve wanted all my life? The thing I’ve never had? Protection. Safety. Security.
Ayvinx is a bold, raw representation of those ideals—but he’s just that: an ideal. This offer is real.
“Don’t answer now. We have a lot to get through before that day comes. But this offer will always stand.”
“Thank you, My Queen,” I s
ay.
We walk back to the girls and I’m glad to see that two of them are ready for the button eyes on their rag dolls. Then I realize something else. Fendans can’t breed with humans. For all the Imperator’s talk of sowing seed in my womb, it was just a figure of speech.
If I stay here, there’ll be no chance of ever having a child.
“Can I have the red buttons?” one of the royal nieces asks.
“No, I want them,” her sister demands.
“Auntie,” she whines.
“Girls!” the Queen snaps, regal authority clear in her tone.
But her next words are cut off.
There’s a siren—so loud that everyone in the courtyard doubles over, putting their hands to their ears to cover the sound.
There’s only one reason the alarm would be going off.
The Kraxx are here.
The ships land fast, like raindrops falling from the sky. One minute, nothing. The next, Kraxxoid ships are blanketing the capitol.
I grab the nearest Fendan officer—at least I think he’s an officer—and tell him to sound the alarm.
“The time is now!” I shout. At least I’ve got fifty soldiers gathered in the training yard with me. I scan the crowd for familiar faces—my best fighters. Then I notice something that’s strange, but not all that surprising.
Vhorwig is nowhere to be seen.
He was here a moment ago, before the last round of fighting. And now—gone. I push my suspicions to the side. They don’t matter very much right now. Right now, the only thing that matters is cutting down the Kraxx.
“Hold fast! Today, you are warriors!” I say to the confused crowd. “Today you get to feel the squelch of your blade as it sinks inside Kraxx flesh. Today, you get to listen to the sound of your enemies crying in agony—the sound of their boots on the ground as they flee screaming from your attack. Today, you’ll get to smell the dark, foul stench of Kraxxoid ichor as you wipe it from your sword. Today is the day! Today we fight! For Fenda!”
“For Fenda,” they scream. More have joined us in the yard, their swords ready. Yes, I think, their swords are ready—but what of the rest of them? Their hearts and minds? Judging by the look in their eyes, they’re only on a passing acquaintanceship with the state of readiness.
We charge. The ships have landed in the capitol, scattered about as noisome insectoids will scatter about your meal as you sit down to eat. We have the advantage of being close at hand, able to run on foot to meet the invaders.
I unsheathe my own weapon and begin the work to which I was born.
- - -
The best thing about fighting is that you can’t think about anything else. Your mind enters a fugue state where it becomes singularly focused on survival and destruction—of yourself the former, and your enemy the latter. Your mind doesn’t wander. You do not obsess or worry or fret. Ironically, you have no fears. There’s nothing but the movements of your arms and legs—the movement of your enemy. Even the cries of pain and the stench of blood and shit and sweat are secondary—you’re aware of them, but only as if through thick layers of gauze.
I sight an enemy. I charge. I strike. I dodge. I bleed. But I survive—I come out the victor in every engagement. I lose count of the Kraxx that I strike down. Several of the Fendans are on the ground—some groaning, some still, some dead. I step over them, only dimly aware that my brothers-in-arms have fallen. That awareness comes after—after you come out of the fugue.
There are dead Kraxx on the ground—and not all by my own hand. The Fendans are fighting. The Fendans are killing.
I hear the delicate crunch of boots on gravel. Despite the din of battle—the shouts and screams and sobs—I hear the boots behind me. The bloodlust has consumed me, fine-tuning all of my senses. Amplifying sounds, sharpening colors, strengthening smells.
I spin on my heels and let out a loud bray of laughter. I am fully immersed in pure combat joy. I’m under the influence—drunk on the clash of swords and clenched fists and spilling entrails. It’s a Kraxx soldier, looking impossibly thin, impossibly weak. These are the most feared devils in the universe? These things? His arm trembles as he reaches for his long scythe. The narrow, flat head resembles the shiny brown backs of the insectoids that lurk in the dark after nightfall. The sort of insectoids that you step on without a second thought.
“You’re on the wrong planet,” I say, unable to keep the smile off of my face. I point my anankah at him and the blastwave sends another pleasurable ripple up my arm all the way to the shoulder.
I find another bastard, his scythe poised, ready to strike down a Fendan who’s already engaged with another Kraxx. I don’t even draw my weapon. I pull back my arm and strike a blow to his flat, Kraxxoid head. Its thick outer skin cracks and crumbles like a dry leaf. I pull the Fendan away from the aggressor and kick the bastard in the knee. He folds and I bring the blunted end of my anankah down on the back of his skull. It sinks in several inches and I have to wrench hard to pull it out.
More. Give me more of these invading bastards. The bloodlust is upon me and it is hungry.
A hand clamps down on my shoulder. I feel claws pushing into my skin. I only react. My instincts have completely taken over. The bloodlust has filled my veins, and my lungs, my head—and I am reduced to nothing but animal cunning, yet at the same time elevated into a graceful, preternatural killer. Sub- and super- Zalaryn at the same time.
I grab hold of the wrist and, with a powerful heave, I squat down and pull the vile creature over my shoulders, slamming it down hard on its back. All the air is driven out of its lungs—do these things even have lungs?—and a thick trail of ichor oozes down one of the uneven gouges that serves as a nostril.
I step on him as I make my way further into the fray, looking for more things to kill.
- - -
It’s over.
The grip of the bloodlust finally leaves me. It’s a slow process, relinquishing its hold in small increments. When I finally regain control of my wits, the streets are clogged with debris: weapons, blood, and corpses.
It’s hard to tell how much time has passed. It seems like hours—but I wouldn’t be surprised if the battle had been done and over with in less than fifteen minutes. Such is the state of bloodlust, of the hyperfocus—it’s impossible to gauge time. You exist in a void of fighting, of killing and surviving. Time does not exist. Only the bloodlust. Only the glee of combat.
I round up the Fendans that aren’t too badly hurt and we patrol the capitol. There are several of the small, single-piloted light aircraft favored by the Kraxx. They came in fast, breaking through the atmosphere and touching ground in a matter of seconds. I count the ships, making two rounds to be sure, then send someone else to double-check the numbers. There are 30 craft in the capitol—which means there should be 30 bodies.
Because now the combat glee has worn off, I’m able to think about more than just who’s swinging a scythe at my head. All the thoughts come rushing in at once.
The most pressing thought is why Noxu would send a measly thirty ships to take the most precious resource in the quadrant. Only thirty? The Kraxx are fearsome and can cut down several fighters with one fell swipe of a weapon, but only thirty? According to Droka, there were hundreds—if not thousands—assembled on New Pallas.
So, what the holy void was this little attack?
Because it was a little attack. Thirty of anything qualifies as a little attack.
Lots of things to think about—but not now. Now everyone is clapping me on the shoulders, commending my fighting, thanking me for the training, bragging about how many Kraxx they killed. If I was to tally up everyone’s boasts and exaggerations, at least three-hundred Kraxx had just been slain.
Only thirty ships. Thirty bodies.
“Gather the Kraxxoid bodies!” I yell to anyone who’ll listen. “Get tele-lifts, get wagons—drag the foul creatures by the ankles if you need to—but I need every corpse lined up in a pretty little row right now!”
The Fen
dans look puzzled, but they’re so happy to be alive—so drunk on their victory, they’d do just about anything I asked right now.
They work to line up the bodies and I pace nervously, my mind spinning. And where in the name of the void is Vhorwig? He who was nowhere to be seen during the battle. He who left during the Imperator’s speech to take a transmission on his comm.
There were thirty ships—but I have a strong suspicion that we’re not going to be able to stack thirty bodies.
I count and recount the Kraxxoid bodies, and I’m right. There are only twenty-eight. I dispatch a few of the officers that aren’t totally incompetent to keep searching for the two missing Kraxx. I need to find the Imperator.
I find him strolling the streets, casually, and with such a wide smile on his face that if it wasn’t for the corpses of his countrymen, you could mistake the Imperator for taking a sunny afternoon constitutional.
“Imperator,” I call out. His smile broadens and he quickens his pace to meet me, that bulbous nose wobbling to and fro.
“The man of the hour,” he says. “A debt of gratitude. The Fendan race owes you a debt that will take generations to repay.”
“Nonsense,” I say. I have no patience for this courtly, diplomatic puffery. “This was not the attack. This was a diversion.”
“Not the attack?” he says, his forehead wrinkling in honest confusion. “What do you call this?” He gestures at the carnage.