CYBORG PLEASURE; the Space Madame's Warrior

by Cathryn Cade

  She managed to turn on trembling legs. Yep. A wild catamount.

  Might as well serve her up on a quarking plate. She was gonna be kibble for the large, golden feline crouching on top of the highest of the rock piles, well over her head, if help didn't arrive soon.

  “Here, little mawwr,” she managed, her voice thin. “Come and play with my pretty wand.” She held it out before her, the tip crackling and glowing.

  The spectators hissed and booed. Someone threw a recycled drink container, which landed on the cata's back. It snarled, and crouched, pissed off and getting ready to spring.

  And if that wasn't bad enough, huge, battle-garbed cyborgs began to stride from the other open gates. Focused on her, not the cata.

  “Now not all the warriors can claim the damsel,” Blu announced, like a sportscaster working a Quasiball match. “Thus, these mighty males will battle for her favors ... that is, if the cata doesn't get her first. Oh, and she won't be flying out of her predicament, either. Not without her pretty cape.”

  “Ilya!” Var ordered in her com. “Run.”

  A heavy footstep thudded behind Ilya. She whirled, realizing too late she'd been mesmerized by the cata and missed the huge cyborg, clad entirely in red leather and black spikes, coming up behind her. Too late to run.

  He held a long, gleaming blade in each hand, which he used to slash her cape to ribbons. Then he held the tip of one blade to her throat, a painful pressure on her skin. She felt something hot trickle down her bare throat—the bastard had cut her.

  “Take off the boots,” he ordered in a voice as dark and cold as his eyes through his red mask.

  Ilya kicked off the boots, and the huge man stomped them into the sand, leaving the crowd shrieking with delight and her standing there in thin gold stockings, shaking with the adrenaline and terror flooding her veins.

  The cyborg held up his arms in triumph and the crowd roared. Then he reached for Ilya.

  “Shock him!” Var roared in her com. “I’m coming.”

  Ilya flicked her baton at the red-and-black ‘borg, and sent current crackling at his face. He flinched back with a grunt, then raised his blades, coming at her.

  She dropped and rolled to the side, then stabbed the baton in his side and held it there, hard, until he arched back and fell to his knees with a roar of pain.

  “Get a blade!” Bek yelled in her com.

  Ilya grabbed the nearest of the ‘borg’s blades and wrenched it from his grasp, then darted away.

  Two other cyborgs, an exceptionally tall one in green and a stocky one in brown were locked in battle nearest her. Ilya danced around them, her heart thundering as she strove for a glimpse beneath the taller one's mask. When he darted a look her way and she saw a pair of hazel eyes, she raced forward and brought down the flat of her blade on his opponent’s head as hard as she could.

  Immediately, the green warrior moved, kicking the reeling man's feet out from under him and dumping his onto his head. The stocky brown warrior fell limp on the sand, knocked cold.

  The green warrior came at Ilya with a roar of triumph, and she brought up her blade—carefully. They dueled their way slowly across the open sand, toward another battling pair. One of these, an exceptionally broad-shouldered warrior in black, whirled with a berserker roar and knocked his opponent flying into one of the rocks.

  The other cyborg struck with a thud, and fell slowly to the sand, his helmet rolling away to land with a clang, leaving his blond head unprotected. Bright red blood ran down to soak into the sand.

  The tall green warrior went after another man in yellow.

  “Get out of here now,” the black warrior ordered in Ilya's com.

  “Uh, change of plan,” she gasped, turning her back to him to face a lean, menacing warrior in blue, who was cracking a long whip over his head. “My shoes ... are gone ... and my cape.”

  She ducked with a yelp as the whip snaked toward her, but it was too late. The end of the whip wrapped around her wrist, and she was dragged over the sand to the blue warrior, who grinned ferociously below his mask. “Who'll sssave you now, damssel?” he asked her as he yanked her against him.

  “Me,” she gritted, and stabbed him in the ribs with her baton.

  “Let her go, Haass,” Var roared, barreling toward them. “I'll take your head.”

  But Ilya's captor was already jerking away from her, gagging on the charge from her baton. Ilya fell to her knees and then squirmed to face him, holding the blade between them in case he came at her again.

  “Oh,” Blu's magnified voice crooned. “It seems our damsel has weapons of her own. Shall we let her keep them, or shall we take them away?”

  The resulting roar indicated the crowd wanted her unarmed, and defenseless. Just reinforced her opinion of most wealthy folk—they were useless slimers.

  “Sorry, baby,” Var muttered, before he yanked the blade from her hand. Then he hurled it over her head with all his might, and Ilya heard it strike flesh.

  The cata screamed, and Var groaned. “Shit, didn't wanna have to do that. Stay down, baby.”

  He charged past her, and Ilya scrambled to her feet just as the red-and-black warrior charged across the sand, deadly fury in every line of his form.

  Var met him with a solid thud that Ilya felt to her very soul. She let out a cry and held her breath until the two broke apart. The red-and-black cyborg lifted his remaining blade and brought it down in a killing blow ... except that Var was bringing up his thick staff under it. The staff took the blow, then splintered in half.

  With a yell of triumph, the red warrior whirled away and came around again, all the force of his body behind his blade—only to meet the other blade in Var's huge hands, at throat level.

  The red-and-black warrior's blade hit black's chest, but although black rocked on his feet, red seemed to pause in midair, and then he slumped back and down, faltering to the sand. As Var jerked the stolen blade away, blood sprayed outward in a deadly arc from the other man’s throat. A collective gasp shook the spectators and for the first time since the battle began, they were quiet. High above, a female whimpered quietly and was shushed.

  “An opponent falls,” Blu said, a bitter edge to his voice. “And so one less to claim the damsel. Who might he be, this black champion? Let him—”

  “Shut up!” Ilya screamed, her voice shrieking through the air over his. She dashed up a slanting rock to face him in his chair. “Enough! You twisted, blood-thirsty little excuse for a being.”

  Standing in the middle of the sand, she pointed her baton at him, shaking with utter rage.

  “Do you see what you've done?” she demanded of him. “D’you all see what he’s done? You've killed your one true champion, Dr. Annar Blu. The only one of your captives who actually wished to be part of your violent games. And for what? So that you could have revenge on a dead woman?”

  The silence was absolute. Blu stared at her as if one of the rocks had come to life.

  A small gray figure eased down past the spellbound spectators, just inside Ilya's field of vision, but no one noticed. They were all watching and listening to Ilya.

  “Yeah,” Ilya said. “We learned all about your wife. Who left you for another man ... until you violated the privacy of their bed and of his mind, and forced him to murder the woman he also loved. Then you slithered off to enjoy your disgusting little victory, while he went to die in prison, unable to bear that she'd died by his hand.’

  ‘But that wasn't enough, was it? No, you came here, and chanced upon a wounded soldier. You hated and envied him, because he was big and strong and whole, unlike you. So you experimented on him. Could you use your Indigon powers on him, to make him do your will as well?”

  “Shut up, you worthless, stupid space trash,” Blu yelled, coming to life at last. He raised a thin arm and pointed at her. “What are you waiting for, warriors? She's yours—take her. Use her however you wish. Slake your lust on her.”

  The tall green warrior turned and stalked toward Ilya
. On her other side, the black warrior closed in. And behind her, another cyborg approached. And another thudded toward her from the other direction.

  Blu's eyes lit with unholy azure glee. “Yes,” he called. “That's it. She's yours, the spoils of battle. Have at her, men.”

  Ilya stood very still, her legs trembling like twigs in a spring wind. The hand that clutched her baton was slippery with sweat, and it trickled down her underarms and her back under the clammy gold fabric. Shit, shit, shit. Which way to strike first with her baton? She could get one, but two? Sure as hells no more.

  Then the black warrior reached up and pulled his helmet off, and tossed it on the sand at his feet.

  “No,” he thundered. “No, Blu.”

  On her other side, the tall green warrior unfastened his helmet. It stuck, and she heard him grunt as he tugged it off. It dropped on the sand and rolled.

  “No,” he yelled, his young voice cracking on the word. “Hells no, Dr. Blu.”

  Behind her, one of the other warriors was grunting as if trying to free himself from bonds. Ilya turned, the baton ready to strike, to see a silver helmet fly through the air and a shock of red hair over a pale, freckled face. “Fuck, no, ya weasely wee blighter,” the burly redhead snarled, and spat on the sand.

  Ilya looked to Var, and they all turned to the last warrior, a short, broad male sheathed in dark gray armor. For a long moment he stood motionless. Then his hand opened, and his battleax thudded to the sand, useless. With a low moan, he swayed and fell backward to land with a resounding thud beside it.

  Behind him sat Playa. She met Ilya's gaze and shrugged, as if to say, ‘Oh, well.’

  Var gave a deep huff of startled amusement, and then moved to Ilya, sliding his arm around her waist as they faced Blu.

  “Annar Blu,” he called. “You’ve no one left to side with you.”

  Blu drew himself up, sneering. “Now that’s where you’re wrong. I have friends here—allies.”

  “Not anymore you don’t,” Bek said. “They’ve all been arrested.”

  He stepped from the shadows and strode to stand beside Blu, scowling down at him with utter distaste. “Annar Blu, as guard captain of this station, on behalf of the free beings of this space station, I place you under arrest for the unlawful capture, imprisonment and abuse of free men of the Galactic Federation. You'll remain under guard in our grids, until such time as you can sit trial for your crimes.”

  “No,” Blu screamed, his eyes wild. “No, you can't do this to me. I'll kill every miserable being in this stadium before I ... let ... you—” With a look of sheer astonishment, he froze in his chair, staring at Playa as she glided toward him over the sand and rock of the arena floor, her gaze trained on him.

  “You will do nothing, Dr. Blu,” she told him, her voice shaky but clear. “You have done more than enough. Now you will stop.”

  From behind him, Ryder and the other pirates appeared, weapons at the ready. They were flanked by Bek’s guards.

  Stitch was with them. He stepped forward and slapped a heavy patch on the side of Blu's neck above his white suit. Blu gave one gasp, and then slumped unconscious in his chair, head lolling on his thin neck.

  “Looked to me like Stitch enjoyed that,” Var said for Ilya's ears alone.

  “I know I did.” She turned, planted her face on his broad chest, and hugged him as hard as she could, shuddering with delayed reaction.

  His mighty arms closed around her. “Hey, it's okay,” he rumbled against her hair. “It's all over. We did it.”

  “I know,” she managed. “But please don't ever make me watch you go up against a blade like that again.”

  He groaned, and his arms tightened. “Baby, you ever again make me watch you pull a grandstand play like that, and end up facing off against males twice your size, and I'll ... I’ll … well, just don't.”

  “I promise.” She held on to him tightly, meaning every word.

  The stirring sounds of the Galactic Federation anthem swelled to fill the arena.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Bek said, his voice grave and authoritative. “This arena is now closed. If you will please exit in an orderly manner, you'll be escorted to your rooms.’

  ‘And then,” he said, glaring around at the tiers of shocked spectators above, “you'll have two choices—either get your rich, spoiled asses back where you came from within one hour, or spend the night in this station's grids. And no, there will be no credit refunded to your accounts for your stay or any of the bets you placed here tonight, so don't ask.”

  Var chuckled, and Ilya thought she heard Bek mutter, “Damn, I enjoyed that.”

  “VX,” said a deep voice over their heads. “What should we do now?”

  Var lifted his head, and Ilya reluctantly let him go. She looked up—way up at the hazel eyed boy-man standing there.

  “I can answer that, DR,” she said. “Let’s go and get you brave warriors cleaned up, and then order up every delicious food you can imagine, and ... we’ll have a party.”

  His eyes lit up and he looked from her to Var, his mouth curving up. “Really?”

  “Really,” Var said, his grin widening. “She's the boss, so if she says we can order whatever we want, we're good.”

  DR motioned. “Come on, AC. Bring TN, and let's go. We're gonna eat whatever we want. No more protein tubes.”

  “Well, get over here and help me,” came the grumpy reply. “This bastard weighs more than them big fuckin' stones over there.”

  “What about the rest of them?” Ilya asked, wincing at the downed warriors.

  “Don't much care,” the redhead said. “They're not our mates.” He and DR hauled their friend away without another look at the others.

  “Let me and my guards worry about them,” Bek called from the stands. He leaned over the railing, hands braced on it, and shook his head at them. “Least you can do, after stealing most of the fun.”

  Var snorted loudly, and chucked his bloody blade onto the rocks, where it landed with a rough clang. “Oh, yeah, laugh a minute down here. Most all of them are alive, I think. Except for SN—and no one will miss that vicious bastard.”

  He cast one look around the arena and then urged Ilya forward. “Let’s go. I never want to see this quarking hell-hole of an arena again as long as I live.”

  Neither did she. They could sell the place or blow it up ... but she was never coming back. She didn’t know where her life with Var would lead her—they wouldn’t want to travel the plains forever—but right now that didn’t matter as long as they were together.

  * **

  To say there was a party in the owner’s suite of the Pleasure Palace that night would be an understatement. Il Zhazid’s—now Ryder’s—Frontieran band of sometime pirates showed Bek, Playa and Var’s young friends how they celebrated a victory.

  Ilya, Qala and Dano ordered up a feast and Haro, Ryder and Bek took care of procuring drinks and legals enough for a group twice their size. Playa brought in some music, some of Var’s favorite rhythm rock, and they turned it up.

  And then they ate and drank and laughed and retold their adventures. DR, AC and TN helped a great deal making the food disappear, although Var told them quietly no more than two drinks apiece, as their control was yet uncertain and no one wanted this area torn apart by rezzed enhanced males again.

  Ryder flirted with two of the pretty young waitresses. “Thinking of calling myself Il Wynd,” he told them. “Get it? Ill wind that blows no good? I’m a bad, bad man.” The two giggled in delight, and he kissed them both in turn and tossed back another shot of whisky. He later disappeared with both of them.

  Haro and Qala demonstrated—atop Vadyal’s desk—how to do a Tauryan tiptap dance. They only fell off once, and although Haro wondered the next morning why his shoulder was bruised, he was used to mysterious injuries from revelry.

  Orson unbent under the influence of the excellent whisky from Vadyal’s private reserves, and actually laughed and joked with everyone, while Dano g
iggled admiringly.

  Playa shared a bottle of fine wine with Stitch, and the two of them shared a philosophical discussion on the appropriate punishment for Dr. Blu. Stitch, being a physician, was against capital punishment. Playa thought the prison planet Deep Six would be even worse. Both agreed he deserved to have his powers blocked for good, before receiving his sentence.

  Bek raised a toast first to Playa for her work saving them all, and then to the rest of them. “You’re all wealthy now, you know,” he said. “Even a small share of this place is lucrative.”

  “Been thinking about that,” Ilya said. “I know you all—and Stark—will have to approve, but I think we should sell it to the employees. Playa, you and Bek could run it as a co-op.”

  Playa looked stunned, but cautiously delighted. Bek grinned at her. “I’m in, as long as Playa is.”

  Playa gave Ilya a look. “Me, the CEO? I don’t know.”

  Ryder snorted. “You’d be great, little chair-rider. Don’t sell yourself short. You’re a nuclear bomb in a small package.”

  She blushed, and Bek moved closer to her, giving Ryder a dark look. Ryder winked and went back to his two lovelies.

  Ilya curled in Var’s lap and shared drinks with him, watching their friends and allies. “I feel as light as a feather,” she told him. “Like I could just float with happiness.”

  He rose, her in his arms, and joined Orson and Dano, who were dancing to a favorite tune. Ilya laughed and hung on as he swung her in gentle circles, safe in his arms. Then she kissed him, and smiled into his blue, blue eyes. “Take me to bed, Var Garroc. I wanna make love with my husband.”

  “That’s good,” he rumbled. “’Cause I wanna fuck my wife.”

  He carried her toward the passageway to her bedroom.

  “You be good,” he told the three young men hunched over the only food tray with anything left on it. “Mind Bek and Stitch.”

  “Okay, VX,” they chorused.

  As Ilya watched the three hulking young men nod earnestly at her husband, she smiled at him.

  “What?” he asked.

  “They look up to you,” she said. “Bet when we leave, they’ll wanna come too.”