Alien Bride (Love, Drugs, and Biopunk)

by McGill, Brie

  Wolfram lunged across the table, seizing the gun’s barrel and redirecting it away from Orion. “There will be no firing of weapons in my home.” He glowered, and then dropped to one knee, clamping a hand over his head.

  Shoulders bobbing with laughter, Aleister sported a cheeky grin. “I wasn’t going to shoot him!” He turned to Orion, raising his hands. “Wasn’t going to shoot you, buddy, I swear.”

  Unimpressed, Orion met him with a hard stare.

  Wolfram removed the gun from Aleister’s hands and cleared his throat. “Your friend" —he took a deep breath, glancing severely at the gun— "has built a fascinating device, based upon a crude and rudimentary comprehension of etheric technology.” Hands sliding to locate switches on the barrel, he powered down the gun, waiting for the crimson energy to dissipate; the color drained from his face. “This weapon may function as intended with the weaker ones, those who have crossbred with the surface dwellers, or those slowly deteriorating by virtue of a flawed life support technology, such as myself.” He lifted a hand to his chest, turning to Orion. “But those with pure blood, those who have been preferentially created, those sustained with experimental technology—they are many orders of magnitude stronger.”

  “You mean, like Andrealphus.” Orion knit his brow, observing the effects of the charging gun on Wolfram—his modifications appeared potent indeed.

  “It is. . . interesting. . . if you would forgive my observation.” Wolfram folded his hands, addressing Orion. “Though you are uniquely bound to the temporal protocols of the upper world, you are fiercely robust.”

  Exhaling slowly, Orion concluded it was a miracle that he would not have to spend another five hundred years on earth enduing this shit, kidnapping girlfriends, blowing up communications towers, sharing tea with strange creatures in the center of the earth, and being pimped by a left-handed megalomaniac for his pseudo-psychic abilities. Ah, yes, eventual respite was in his cards.

  Death. What a relief.

  Wolfram leaned forward. “The giants that have segregated from the rest of us—those that live as royalty in this world—will never take damage from your rudimentary guns.”

  Aleister’s face melted into a wounded grimace.

  Orion’s lips curled with a smug grin.

  “That is why” —Wolfram grabbed an apparatus made of coiled electrum and terminated quartz and tossed it to Orion— “I have upgraded your units with a prism splitter.”

  Holding the unit in his palm, Orion raised the geometric nest of crystals to his face and lifted an eyebrow.

  “This device, now installed in your weapons, will split the initial signal into six separate streams of energy, each stream magnified in power by a factor of six.” Wolfram nodded. “This will increase the power of your weapons tremendously, enough to give you a fighting chance.”

  Orion’s eyes shifted to Aleister. “A fighting chance?”

  Wincing, Wolfram explained, “The unit will take much longer to charge than it previously did. But, unless you’d like to stay with me for several weeks and postpone the rescue operation for Ninkasi, I cannot build you a swifter device.”

  Orion turned his head away. “Waiting is not an option.”

  Wolfram bowed his head. “I agree.”

  “Wolfram, why don’t you show Aleister how to fire the gun?” Orion stood up from the chair. “Then we can go.”

  Despite the fact Ninkasi couldn’t accurately gauge the duration of her captivity—she possessed no time-telling device, and suffered multiple lapses in consciousness—her body signaled it was long enough to begin starvation.

  Since her captivity, no one had fed her; no one had offered her drink.

  After her branding, she awoke in a cramped, private cell, with only the company of her throbbing, barbecued—but fortunately virgin—ass. She was still naked, now separated from all the others, wearing only the shackles on her neck, wrist, and ankles; it was impossible to sit comfortably with a charcoaled butt. Marshmallows ashing over an open flame could not compete with her agony.

  Her stomach cramped, longing for food; she felt light-headed, ravenous, fearing a few more days of this would have her on her hands and knees, digging through the dirt in the floor in search of grubs, or rats to swallow in one bite, slurping their tails like linguine fra diavolo.

  Ninkasi shook the thought from her mind. She was taken for a reason; otherwise, her kidnappers wouldn’t keep her alive. It was more economical to kill than to kidnap, right?

  It made her panicky, the thought of slowly wasting away, imprisoned: she bet death by starvation was long and ugly.

  She would give anything to return to the chateau—anything.

  A panel on the door unlocked and slid open; a gloved, six-fingered hand reached through the opening, placing a rusted bowl of water upon the floor. The hand disappeared and the panel slammed shut.

  She never did see who was on the other side.

  Immense relief and happiness washed over her: water! Scrambling to the door, Ninkasi sat on her heels and greedily tipped the bowl to her lips.

  The bowl was filthy; she originally thought nothing of it when she detected a residue at the bottom of the bowl, something crunchy, sandy, gritty. She assumed it was nothing out of the ordinary for these cave-dwelling psychopaths to give their prisoners dirty dishes, considering all the horrors she’d seen and endured here; frankly, she was shocked they hadn’t given her a giant bowl of toilet water with a big turd floating inside, and a note scrawled in their language reading (not that she could read it), ‘This is what we think of you.’

  Dying of thirst, she licked every final drop from the bottom of the bowl, before placing it against the door, and slumped against the wall.

  The beverage’s refreshment was short-lived: she estimated fifteen minutes after drinking, her throat felt dry and scratchy. Her tongue chafed the inside of her mouth like sandpaper. She swallowed and swallowed, but nothing relieved the parched, crumply feeling inside her mouth.

  She felt worse than before accepting the water; this alerted her that something was wrong.

  Assuring herself it was just her imagination, she climbed to her feet. She was delirious with hunger, she reasoned, and the stress of being seared with a branding iron didn’t help.

  Ninkasi lifted her hands above her head to stretch, and teetered sideways, catching herself against the wall. Trembling, she sank to her feet; when she moved too quickly, the room blurred like a mirage.

  Panting, she glanced at her hands: her skin appeared reddish, sunburned.

  Placing a hand against her chest, she felt her heart thump: had they poisoned her and left her to die?

  She panicked, sweeping her hands over her face, further alarmed by the heat exuding from her face: this had to be the effects of a poison. Rolling onto her back, minding the side of her ass, she stared at the ceiling, wondering what would become of her.

  The click of a key in a lock interrupted her thoughts.

  Weakening, Ninkasi turned her head toward the door. “I think SOMETHING is wrong WITH ME.” She tried to clamp a hand over her mouth, horrified that the capacity to modulate her vocal volume disappeared.

  Only, Ninkasi couldn’t reach her mouth: she groped and swatted at the air, trying to find her face, but her hand felt like it was a million miles away. Dizzy, horrified, she shut her eyes.

  A grey uniformed man towered over her. He tossed her a sheer white muslin dress, with a black cord to tie around her waist. “Dress.”

  So they did speak her language, those shifty bastards. Ninkasi shakily pushed herself into a sitting position; she grabbed the dress from the floor and tumbled sideways, smacking her head against the back wall of the cell. “I can’t MOVE.” She hung her head and started to cry. “I THINK you POISONED MY water—”

  She sounded like an idiot. She would sound like an idiot right before she died, naked, in obscurity, with a big star branded on her ass.

  The man knelt beside her, snatching the dress from her hands. He opened the
dress, fitting it around her like a hospital gown, guiding her arms into the garment.

  Ninkasi swatted uncontrollably, thinking she was inserting her arms into the arm holes, but missing them, either punching the middle of the dress or diving sideways beyond it. She couldn’t stop the tears.

  Frowning, she studied the dress. It was difficult to discern the detail in the weave of the fabric—everything looked blurry up close, a probable side effect of the lethal poison eating her brain—but she was displeased with its transparency. Despite the fact she wore a dress, her nipples were entirely visible; still, she preferred a pseudo-dress to no dress at all.

  The man knotted the cord around her waist.

  Ninkasi assumed he was done.

  Next, loosened a chain from the side of his waist and grabbed her ankles. Attaching the chain to her shackles, he left enough slack between her feet to walk with tiny steps. He seized her wrists and pulled her to her feet.

  Ninkasi stumbled, falling again.

  He dug his fingers into her arm and steadied her.

  She sniffled. The movement was too fast—she thought she might faint—she needed to lie down—

  Unhooking another section of chain from his waist, the guard bound Ninkasi’s wrists behind her back, shouting something in his native tongue at the door.

  A second man in uniform filed into the room, standing dutifully beside him.

  The first man attached the final loop of chain to the shackle around Ninkasi’s neck; without warning, he jerked hard on the chain, pulling her with a crash to the floor.

  Ninkasi yelped, the side of her face taking the brunt of the impact. She sat crouched over folded legs, and tried to lift her head, chains jingling with her movement.

  The man dropped the chain connected to her neck and secured it beneath his boot, leashing her head to the floor.

  The second man positioned himself behind her, prying her hips off the ground with leather-gloved hands, lifting her backside into the air.

  She shuddered, tears rolling down her face, her absolute fear of the situation returning in full force. There was no more humiliating position than this—

  From the corner of her eye, she saw the first man pass something long, horrifically long, to the second.

  There was an awkward moment of silence, of dreadful anticipation: Ninkasi felt so sick, so exhausted and delirious, she could do nothing but weep in disgust over the imminent destruction of her body.

  Head chained to the floor, her arms and legs shackled, there was nothing, nothing she could do to help herself.

  The gloved hands lifted the dress up over her hips.

  She exploded with a convulsing sob: this was it.

  A hand found her ass—never before had she felt so revolted—

  Something synthetic, plastic, prodded the entry to her innocent, untouched ass. There was a pause—and then the man thrust the object inside her with one forceful blow.

  Ninkasi screamed at the top of her lungs.

  Stumbling into a vast stone auditorium draped with crimson curtains and carpet, Ninkasi choked on the resinous stench of incense billowing in the air. She tottered, the plug in her ass hellaciously uncomfortable. The drugs running strong, everything in the room became a swirl; it was impossible to walk straight unhindered, nevermind the addition of constricting chains and shackles.

  Each time she fell, one of the men caught her by the chain on her throat and yanked her to her feet, wringing the air from her tormented body.

  She was hyper-aware of her nipples, and other more private areas of her body exposed through the thin film of her garment. She was certain everyone could see the mark stamped into her ass.

  Ninkasi tried to stop crying; she knew the worst was yet to come. The enormous plug inside her served as a wicked reminder of impending doom. Couldn’t they kill her and then have their way with her? Clearly, they were in to some weird shit, so why not—

  Tilting her head, Ninkasi stared into the room, amidst the swirl of glowing black and red candles: she couldn’t gauge depth and distance, but she dimly determined they took her to a stage. A man presiding over the stage, wearing black robes and a black, egg-shaped hat, chimed a gong in monotonous intervals.

  A sea of black-robed worshippers chanted with faces obscured by black hoods. The incantations compounded her delirium.

  One of the men tugged the chain around her throat, dragging her toward an altar dressed with a red and black cloth. He barked an order in his native language, shoving her onto her knees.

  The presider in the eccentric hat engaged the crowd with a fierce, atonal chant; the crowd echoed his words in a rumbling drone.

  Losing her balance, Ninkasi slipped and fell, landing on her side.

  One of her keepers tugged the chain around her throat, whipping her into a seated position.

  Trembling, she shifted on her knees and whimpered to protest the lingering pain in her body. Bound by the shackles, her arms fell asleep, and the plug pressed uncomfortably inside her. Her nipples hardened in the cool air of the cellar, making her profoundly nervous: she was the only female present in a mob of too many to count.

  When the crowd’s chant peaked in a roaring climax, the presider banged the gong. Cloaked men at either end of the stage pulled on tasseled ropes, opening the curtains in a swoosh.

  An enormous man—a giant—danced onto stage, wearing black leather pants and a goat mask, with ferocious, curving horns and a flickering torch on top of its head. The masked man bucked and leapt, throwing his head back to howl, and wiggled his fingers, casting a magic spell over the enrapt crowd.

  Fat black rats made a jagged dash away from the stage, distracting Ninkasi. Deformed and sitting at knee-height, the glowing-eyed creatures chittered.

  Were they a hallucination? She felt her ability to reason slipping.

  A fat rat scampered unnervingly close to Ninkasi, squealing, claws clacking on the stone floor.

  She jerked her body away from it, vocalizing disgust.

  One of her captors barked an order, yanking Ninkasi to her feet.

  The goat-headed man froze in the center of the stage, arms raised dramatically above his head. The crowd chanted louder, faster, layers of hymn bleeding together in a frenzied climax. The presider chimed the gong, its loud crash drowned in the sea of zealous cries.

  The man goaded Ninkasi to the center of the stage, jabbing her in the back with a kluzein device.

  Trembling, she felt the eyes of the crowd fixated on her.

  Seizing her shoulders, the second captor forced her down onto her knees. The other knelt before the goat, pulling her head to the floor with a firm tug of the chain.

  The gong chimed; a rat zoomed past her.

  Feverish, heart speeding, Ninkasi’s vision blurred, and she entertained the pipe dream of a drink of water. There was no oasis here—

  The goat man clapped his hands, dancing in a circle before her.

  Dizzied, she curled her upper lip with disgust.

  Turning his back to her, the goat hunched forward, lowering his posterior level with her face.

  The presider clutched a gourd rattle in each hand, shaking them violently. The crowd resumed chanting.

  Ninkasi sealed her lips, body rigid.

  Wiggling his rear in her face, the goat backed into her, brushing his leather pants against the tip of her nose.

  Grabbing a fistful of Ninkasi’s hair, one of her captors thrust her face into the goat’s behind.

  Jerking her head sideways, she felt the rough leather of his pants against her cheek.

  The hand forcefully corrected her head, turning it toward the goat, shoving her face into his ass.

  Ninkasi’s face wrinkled with disgust.

  The goat edged backward, securing his behind against her.

  Gasping for air, she wondered if they planned to suffocate her this way.

  Finally, the hands released her. The goat disappeared behind the curtains, satisfied; chanting tapered into silence. With one sharp tug of
the chain, the robed man yanked Ninkasi to her feet, dragging her toward the altar.

  Legs knocking, Ninkasi forced herself to try to remember how to walk, lest the inhuman tugging of the chain break her neck.

  The presider approached her, ripping the cord from her waist.

  She glanced over her shoulder, quaking with fear.

  The man holding her chains pulled her toward their leader.

  Reaching to her body with ice-cold hands, the presider peeled the gossamer fabric over her shoulders, away from her chest, fully exposing her breasts. Brandishing a ceremonial dagger from a sheath on his waist, he sliced through the remaining garment, whipping it away to expose her body like a grand prize.

  Pointing at the altar, a robed man knocked his fist against it, motioning for her to climb on top.

  Feeling for the edge of the altar, Ninkasi overreached and smacked her arm. Dazed, she teetered backward, and lifted one leg; for the life of her, she couldn’t reach the altar. She slipped, tumbling forward, landing on her knees and cracking her head against the side of the dais.

  One of the guards scooped her off the floor, forcefully laying her on the altar with arms outstretched.

  Another guard tightened the shackles on her ankles, firmly binding her feet together.

  Shutting her eyes, Ninkasi heard footsteps; someone moved beside her, placing a slippery votive candle in each of her hands. She heard the strike of a match, and glanced over her shoulder.

  The presider pinched a match between two fingers, the flame illuminating his bone-white haggard face. After lighting each candle, he extinguished the match against her inner thigh.

  A scream escaped her, animalistic, incoherent. She rolled weakly against the shackles, body too heavily drugged to move or resist.

  The candles blazed, the scent of the burning wax smelling oddly like pork fat. There was something familiar about the smell, something unsettling; it heightened her sense of dissociation.

  The gong chimed, and the room became silent; curtains swished open, and the steady click of high heels against a stone floor approached her.

  Ninkasi’s body tensed; she tried to swallow, but her mouth was too dry. The metal restraints felt refreshingly cool against her feverish body.