Claimed by the Alien Mercenary: A Sci-Fi Alien Romance (Zalaryn Raiders Book 3)

by Viki Storm

  “I’ll let her know,” I say. “I’m sure she’ll be thrilled to receive such high praise from a male of your quality.” I seriously entertain the notion of twisting his neck right now. Why not? Half the population of downtown would salute me for a hero.

  “Ah,” he sighs. “Sarcasm. The last refuge of the powerless. The only missile in an otherwise empty silo. See you next week.” As if the bastards have been listening to the whole exchange, Miigko and Lirxi appear immediately to escort me outside.

  I fume all the way home. I told Loza not to go to Gunga last week. I explicitly forbade her. But I was out on the void-damned protein farm with Droka, screwing around with those void-damned creatures, arming the void-damned gravity device, capturing the void-damned rebels.

  And was I paid for my services? Not as such. Paid in experience. Paid in pride for a job well done. Paid in civic duty fulfilled.

  But not in currency that can pay down the debt with Gunga.

  While I was out fiddle-fucking around, not making actual coin, Loza visited Grunga instead—marking off that week’s payment in his ledger the only way she knows how.

  In the time I spent at the protein farm, I could have gotten real work—something that would have put actual coin in my waist-pouch.

  I trudge up the stairs to my dwelling. The landings and hallways are clogged with layabouts and drunkards. I have to elbow past several before I can get to my own front door. I want someone to pick a fight with me. I’m in that sort of mood.

  I key the entry code and go inside. Loza is sitting in her chair, mending a pair of father’s breeches. “Hello,” she says, in a meek voice—but those eyes aren’t meek. She’s already challenging me. Good. I’m in the mood for a fight and I didn’t get one shuffling up the stairwell.

  “You are not allowed to go to Grunga again,” I say, my voice controlled—every muscle in my body clenched in an attempt to keep from screaming.

  “Yeah, sure,” she scoffs, that defiant gleam in her eye. Challenging me.

  “I have never been more serious,” I say. My anger is directed at her because she is a handy target—but it’s not entirely her fault. It’s my debt, after all. “Never again.”

  “If that’s how you like it,” she says again, not bothering to take her eyes off the needlework.

  “I don’t like any of this,” I say, gesturing around to our small, dingy dwelling. “Least of all my own sister acting with such scant regard for her own dignity.”

  “Dignity?” she says, actually laughing now. “Like we ever had a lot of that to begin with.”

  “There’s a line you shouldn’t cross,” I say, trying to hold my anger in check, trying to will the tempest inside me to calm, “and prostituting yourself is crossing that line.” I’m yelling now, but I don’t care.

  “Be quiet,” Loza whispers. “Father is sleeping.” And old shock of fear stabs through me—the fear of a child who doesn’t want to wake the sleeping monster. It’s beyond foolish, but some habits die hard.

  “I don’t care,” I say, but I do lower my voice, “if Father’s in there sleeping off his morning freykka so he can clear the way for his evening freykka. I don’t care if Grunga is about to take both of my thumbs with a rusty blade. Never again.”

  “Oh, come off it,” she says. “You always think you’re so much better than me. Let me tell you—that payment is due every week, whether you like it or not. Whether you’re here, with a waist-pouch full of coin, or you’re out playing blackstone with the High Void-Loving King—that payment is due. I honestly don’t even mind anymore. He takes me out. We have a good time. I get to see people in the taverns. It’s easier for me to spread for ten minutes than for you to go out and do your little jobs here and there.”

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Did she just say that she has a good time with Grunga? I’ll never forget the first time she went to him. It was a few years ago and times were tough—tougher than usual. I came home after being off-planet, fighting in a minor domestic skirmish on Terssia. Grunga was in our dwelling, sitting in a chair, a hand on Loza’s arm. He talked her into it. She was a maiden, but she went with Grunga for the evening anyway. And now? That cynical, bitter eye she casts in my direction, when it can be bothered to be lifted from her needlework?

  Now she speaks like a world-weary whore.

  “Do not speak of such things,” I say.

  “Oh, you don’t want me to speak of such things? You want to pretend that no one else makes contributions? That no one else makes sacrifices? That the burden rests squarely on your shoulders?”

  “You’re forbidden—” I start to say, but she cuts me off.

  “You can’t forbid me to do anything,” she says. “I’m an adult. I can make my own choices—and I’m going to make this one. Grunga has made me an offer: he wishes to buy me. He’ll clear your debt entirely. I’m going to accept.”

  “No,” I say, but my voice is weak from the shock. Grunga is going to buy my sister? Purchase her like a common pleasure slave in the flesh market? No. No, he’s not.

  “Let me do this for you,” she says, while my mouth is hanging open in surprise. “I want to. He’s got a lot of money. He treats me well. It’s better than staying cooped up in here.” As if on cue, Father groans from the other room.

  “Loza,” he wails. “Thirsty!”

  “See what I mean?” she says. “I like going out to the taverns.”

  “No,” I say.

  “You keep saying that, like you have a choice,” she says. Loza sets her sewing aside and gets up. She goes to the basin in the corner of the room and fills a cup with water. But before she goes to Father, she turns to me. “And if you really don’t want me to, you can always ask King Xalax for the money. He’s the damned High King. He probably shits rubies and wipes his ass with khoro fur. The debt is probably nothing in comparison to the royal treasury.”

  “You want me to ask the High King of Zalaryx for money to pay off a loan shark? Have you lost your mind?” I say, but all the fight has been taken out of me. Did she say she wanted to go with Gunga?

  “Loza!” Father calls out. “Water.”

  “Void take us all,” I say. “I’m leaving tonight. I have a job.” Only it’s not just a job. The fate of the entire universe might depend on my success—or failure.

  The Imperator of Fenda is righteously pissed off at Xalax. They were negotiating a treaty that would have given Zalaryx access to the Fendan qizo mines. Then a group of rebels decided to betray the High King and attack Fenda. The Fendans are a little pissed off at all Zalaryns right now—so Xalax is sending me on a diplomatic mission.

  He wants me to train the Fendan soldiers to fight and defend the qizo mines. I might have more success trying to train an army of potted plants. Fendans are not known for their military prowess.

  And, as a sign of good faith, the Fendan Imperator has also requested a Marked female to add to his harem.

  “Doing another favor for the King?” she asks. “Doing your civic duty?”

  “Yes,” I say. “But this time, it will pay.” I look at my comm-panel. I’m supposed to be at the cargo ship already, to select the Marked female I’ll give to the Imperator.

  “It better,” she says.

  “Loza!” Father yells.

  “You try living here with him for a while,” she says, all disdain and defiance gone from her face. She just looks tired. “You take care of him while I go out and make some money. See how long you last. I really don’t mind going with Gunga. Anything’s better than this.”

  “Maybe,” I say. I gather my things and leave without saying goodbye. I wasn’t taught to have much in the way of manners.

  I wasn’t taught to have much in the way of anything.

  These fucking aliens. They’ve taken away the one thing I swore to protect: my dignity. And my freedom. And my self-reliance.

  Actually, they’ve taken everything.

  Including my clothes.

  Their spaceship landed hours—days?—ago,
but I’m still locked in this cage. The metal is cold against my skin and I huddle on the floor, trying to cover my body. I don’t like the way that the aliens leer at me whenever they walk by, their oily grins exposing their bizarre teeth. They have two sets of upper canine teeth and two sets of lower ones. I hate to think what violent race would evolve extra sets of fangs as a survival mechanism.

  Two of them pass by, but stop to peer between the bars of my cage. My body aches from being curled up for so long, but I’ll be damned if I stretch out and let them ogle me. I hate being naked, even when I’m alone. I always bundle myself up in thick layers whenever I go out into the city. Men are always leering, trying to imagine what you look like under your clothing.

  In the ruins of New York, a shapely, feminine body is a liability. It marks you as weak—as a target. Men rove the streets in packs, hunting down lone females the way lions stalk the lone antelope that strays from the safety of the herd.

  “Look at that,” one of the aliens says, pointing at me. I feel my face blush, heat prickling my cheeks. I shift my legs, trying to cover myself up. “The hair on her cunt is red, just like the hair on her head.”

  I always keep my hair pulled back, wrapped underneath a knit cap or a hood for just this reason. Men seem fascinated by red hair—particularly red pubic hair. It seems that this fascination is not unique to Earth men, either. Males all across the universe are intrigued by the prospect.

  “When are you going to let me out?” I say, summoning all my willpower so I sound confident and poised. Hard to do when you’re caged and naked, but I try.

  “I’ll let you out right now,” one of them says, grabbing at his groin. “If you make it worth my time.”

  “She’s Marked,” the other one says, trying to talk sense into his comrade—but not taking his eyes off of me. Oh no. Why do that? I’m on display for their amusement. Isn’t that why they bring the girls from Earth to their God-forsaken planet? For amusement?

  “Yeah, but she’s also a murderer.”

  “We must still maintain her purity,” the other one says.

  “Purity?” the first one scoffs. “She lost that when she plunged the blade into the peacekeeper’s flesh. What Zalaryn male will purchase a murderer to be the vessel for his seed and mother of his sons?”

  “Perhaps many would desire a fierce mate,” the other one says. “She fought to avoid capture—to preserve her virtue. Many males consider that noble.”

  They talk about me as if I can’t understand—as if they didn’t stick a long needle inside my brain and scramble the circuits so I can understand their foul language.

  “Mark my words,” the first one says, “She’s not going up for auction. No way. A crazy bitch like her is too much of a liability.”

  “What about the procedure the Healer was talking about?” the other one asks.

  “Well,” he says, “if they gentle her, then maybe. She’d be a valuable vessel, but…” He gestures vaguely with his hands—indicating what, I don’t know.

  “Yeah,” the other one says. “A bit eerie.”

  “We’ve got a pedipalpoid by the tail. Can’t hold on to it forever. Can’t let it go without getting pinched.”

  “Excuse me,” I shout. I can’t stand it. It’s like I’m a prized dog that just bit someone and the owner can’t decide what they should do with me. “Can you assholes tell me what you’re talking about?”

  The first one unholsters a long weapon from his belt and slams it against the bars of my cage, mere inches from my face. The sound is deafening and it echoes into my molars. I bury my head into my knees and cover my eyes with my arms. How the hell did I end up here? I clawed my way up from nothing. I was a ten-year-old orphan, nothing but a half-empty knapsack slung over one bony shoulder. I made something of myself. I honed my skills and provided a valuable service to the other proles in the city ruins. A considerable amount of cash passed through my hands—though I always used any surplus money to buy provisions and materials.

  But not anymore. Now I am…? I don’t even know what I am anymore. Certainly not Arachne.

  A hot hand is on my shoulder, squeezing. I look up and see that one of the alien bastards has reached through the bars. I snap my head to the side and bare my teeth. These fuckers want to treat me like an animal? Then I’ll act like one.

  He screams and snatches his arm away. I couldn’t stand his touch. His skin was so hot—like an oppressive blanket when you’re trying to sleep on a hot summer’s night.

  “See what I mean?” he says, but he’s wearing a smile again. “A liability. No one’s going to want an unpredictable, violent female in their dwelling.”

  The sudden whoosh of the door startles me as it opens. I can’t get used to all the things on the spaceship. The lights seem too bright, the doors are too loud and the air too cold. Several more of the bastards funnel inside—at least four more of them. At their center is the alien who put the needle into my brain and made it so I could understand and speak their vile language. He’s called Tarlou and he might be their equivalent of a doctor. Or a jailor. He was the one who stripped me naked, poked and prodded at my body, put a syringe into my arm and drew blood and then administered a battery of physical and mental tests.

  “We’ve got the orders,” Tarlou says. That’s why I’ve been caged, even though the ship landed some time ago—no one knew what to do with me. Apparently, they’re equipped to corral weeping, frightened girls in and out of the ship, but no more than that. “Strap her to the bench.”

  The two aliens stare into my cage, the one broadcasting a triumphant shine in his eyes—as if he’s about to get his revenge for the bite I just administered.

  “What?” I start to say, but before I can get anything else out, they fling open the bars of my cage and pull me out. Their fists clamp down around my arms.

  They’re strong. There are too many of them. Even if I could make an escape, what would come next?

  The aliens are holding me upright, pulling my arms behind my back and forcing me down the corridor. My back is arched and my chest is sticking out lewdly—I can feel the roaming eyes of all these lusty aliens on my bare breasts, and on my downy patch of pubic hair. What I wouldn’t give for my coat, my leather leggings, my knit cap and gloves. All that bulky armor, shielding my body from the hungry gaze of ravenous men.

  Another door whooshes open and I see a stark metal table underneath a single, impossibly bright white light. They lead me to the table and I know what’s coming next. I thrash my legs and try to whip my arms, but it’s no use. The two aliens hold me and easily lift me up onto the metal table. The moment I’m forced down, long, telescoping metal cables snake out from underneath and wrap around my limbs, holding me down. I fight to move my arms and legs, but it’s no use. I scream out, but when I do, another cable coils around my neck and tightens just enough to restrict my speech. A cable swoops around my midsection, pinning my torso to the table.

  My arms are outstretched, pulled high above my head—each wrist bound and immobile. My ankles, however, aren’t bound together. Oh, no—each ankle is pulled to the opposite corner of the table, my legs spread out in a wide V shape. The restraints spread the lips of my sex apart, my inner pink flesh on display for this crowd of brutes.

  None of them speak—they’re too rapt, too entranced by the sight of the nude female spread before them. Then, finally, the doctor Tarlou says, “Our new orders are to teach the female obedience.”

  “She certainly requires correction,” the alien bastard says.

  “I know that. She was rather… recalcitrant during her physical evaluation,” Tarlou says.

  “You mean when you looked at my teeth? And needed to use all your fingers and all your toes to count and keep track?” I say, not able to help myself. These bastards. They expect obedience? And they say that I’m the crazy one?

  “See what I mean?” Tarlou says to his underlings. “Spiteful attitude towards authority. Uncooperative, despite overwhelming logical reasons to follow
orders. The human displays pervasive, immature defiance.”

  “I’m not sure if she can be corrected,” the alien bastard says.

  “We will see,” Tarlou smirks. “I’ll even let the female choose. Perhaps it will impress upon her the severity of the situation.” Tarlou walks the length of the metal table and stands near my face. He crouches down so he can look directly into my eyes. His rough, red skin reminds me of the forty-three hides I stole last summer. The tanners were advertising them as quality calf-skin leather, but I knew better. They were the hides of feral dogs, tanned and dyed and ready to be turned into boots.

  “Choose what?” I say, unable to repress my curiosity and growing sense of dread. My sense of dread has been growing quite steadily since I was apprehended in the alleyway—and now I fear it’s reached its full growth and blossomed into maturity.

  “You must learn,” Tarlou says. “We’ve been granted permission to use any means necessary. You can be gentled,” he says and he holds up a needle much like the one that was used in the language procedure, “or you can be broken.”

  I don’t know what the holy hell he’s talking about. Gentled or broken? He can see the confusion on my face, because he leans in even closer—so close I can smell the sour spit in his mouth—and whispers in my ear. The sound of his voice, low and oily, sends a creeping sensation along my flesh—like there’s a contingent of lice trying to burrow into it.

  “It’s not so bad, being gentled,” he says. His hand caresses my cheek, and I whip my head from side to side to rid myself of his touch. He holds up that long needle and taps the side of my skull—where he’d inserted one just like it not that long ago.

  “This is the lobe of your brain that processes language. A few electronic pulses and we can realign your neurons into a configuration more conducive to language acquisition. Easy as can be. But that’s not the only lobe of your brain that we can reconfigure. Not at all.”