Captured by the Alien Warrior_A Sci-Fi Alien Romance

by Viki Storm

  I can feel her strong legs scrambling for purchase. Smell her hair as it whips about my face. Hear her breaths, fast and hitching. The sensations are intense, and I feel myself stiffen underneath my breeches. I haven’t felt the touch of a female in a long, long time. Not since I took my oath as Captain of the Imperial Guard.

  I should have just left this place, left her cowering inside the secret closet crawlspace.

  I have to get her back inside the closet before any other raiders come in and find her. Because now that I see her young body and fresh face, I know what the wild and pent-up lads will do when they see her. Young men like that are a mob. A hive-mind, acting without the strictures of civilization.

  I know. I’ve been a part of mobs like that, part of a hive-mind bent on destruction.

  “Get back in the closet,” I hiss at her. She makes no sign that she understands me. And why should she? It’s not like she has time to study the Zalaryn language after she’s done with a hard day of tending crops. “The others are coming.” It’s hard not to talk to someone, even if you know they can’t understand you.

  For a split-second, I see a flash of comprehension in her eyes. Is it too much to hope that she somehow understands my language? Then her fear returns, instantly, like a comet flash in the sky. She begins to tremble in my arms.

  She is not looking at me or at the knife. She is looking beyond me.

  There is a spray of sunlight, weak though it may be, across the floorboards. The door is open.

  “Look at this,” Zuro says, his voice a knife-edge, keen with malevolence. “Let’s see what you’ve got there.”

  I should have used the knife. On my wrists. Just like my mother told me.

  I have no one to blame but myself. I’m the one who leapt out of the closet, fierce and foolish in equal measure. No, that’s not true. I’m much, much more foolish.

  I’m hiding, taught as a bowstring, listening to that bastard go through my things. The Zalaryns are nothing but thieves.

  I listen to the screams from Delilah and Bert’s house down the lane. They were kind to me after my parents died—looking after me, Delilah cooking meals for me and Bert fixing things around the house.

  I can only imagine they died poorly, afraid and in terrible pain.

  But I stay hidden, harboring no delusions whatsoever that I could run over there and save them. I stay hidden, but I don’t let go of that knife.

  I don’t want to die like them, hate in my heart and begging for the sweet release of death.

  When I hear the bastard come inside my house, I stay hidden. But the sound of breaking glass? It causes the last thread of whatever tenuous sanity I have left to snap.

  It’s my seedling tray. And the alien bastard smashes it just for fun.

  It’s not enough that they leech off others. They mindlessly destroy things just because they’re there. Shows how stupid they are—they should make it easy on those who provide things for them. You don’t starve the horse you need to pull your cart.

  I jump out of the closet, knife in hand, fully planning on plunging it into his neck—and then taking it out and plunging it into my own. I have no hope of getting out of here alive. I have no hope in general, so I might as well take one of these thieving bastards with me.

  I don’t think things through. Obviously. As if I’m nothing more than a pesky fly buzzing around his head, he grabs my arms and twists my wrists, causing the knife to drop to the floor. He pulls my arms behind my back and my little grain sack nightgown tears. My breasts pop out, and my face flushes hot with shame.

  I know what the Zalaryns do to their female captives.

  I try to run, but his grip on my arms is ironclad. He tries to sweep my legs out from under me, but our legs get tangled. We fall to the floor and I land on top of him. My breasts press against his bare chest. His skin is warm—and despite everything else I’m feeling, the warmth of another being’s touch stirs something inside of me.

  Mostly rage.

  That’s when the door opens, and another one of the bastards comes inside.

  “Hold her still for me,” the new alien says, unbuckling his belt. I have never actually seen a Zalaryn up close before. Their skin is red-orange and tough. There’s no hair on their heads, just raised bumps. When the new bastard smiles, I see that while he is missing a few teeth, he has two sets of canine teeth on the top, and two sets on the bottom.

  He looks like he’s going to take a bite out of me.

  “She is mine, Zuro,” the alien holding me says. I can understand what they say, but I don’t dare let on. My parents paid for us to have a small procedure before we left Earth; the result is that the part of my brain that interprets language can understand anything and will automatically translate what I want to say into other languages. Bert and Delilah, for example: they were from Germany, didn’t speak a word of English, but we talked all the time.

  “Alright Kroda,” the alien named Zuro says. He makes no move to refasten his belt. “But are you going to share? The rest of the warriors would love to have a taste of this little human. Remember your first raid? Wasn’t that half of the fun? Hoping you’d be able to sink it inside some exotic cunt?” Zuro steps towards us, walking around our tangled bodies on the floor. I know my nightgown has ridden up around my waist, that this new bastard is getting an eyeful. I hate that he can see my body, but I can live with that as long as my nightgown continues to cover up the tattoo on my shoulder.

  If they find out that I am Marked, then my life is over.

  I will be chained and sold as breeding chattel, forced to give birth to more of these violent little monsters. Anything would be preferable to that.

  I’m straddling the one called Kroda. My knees are on the floor, and Kroda is holding my arms tight. My ass is pointed straight towards the new alien. It would almost be amusing, how inviting I must look to him. But trust me, an invitation to this barbarian bastard is the last thing I want to give. Zuro kneels down behind me, as if to enter me from behind like a wild dog.

  Before I can process what’s about to happen, I hear the howl of pain.

  “I said she was mine,” Kroda says.

  He is holstering some sort of weapon. That was fast. Before I even realize that he’s let go of my arm, he draws some sort of club from his belt, whacks Zuro on the nose, and reholsters it.

  Having my arm momentarily freed, I doubt I would have been able to get away—but it would have been nice to at least try.

  Kroda puts his arms around me and whisks us to standing. It’s amazing how easily he was able to pick me up, as if I was light as a feather. He repositions my arms behind my back so he can clamp my wrists with one hand. As my arms are pushed back, it forces me to stick out my chest and I keenly feel the way the torn fabric of my nightgown shifts and parts, exposing my breasts.

  But Zuro is not making a move towards me. Zuro is on the floor, clutching his nose.

  “I have found her,” Kroda says. “I have claimed her. This is our law and custom. A raider owns what he is able to take. She is my spoil of conquest.”

  Owns?

  Holding my wrists with one of his hands, he uses his other hand to unfasten something from his belt. I can’t see what it is.

  But I feel it.

  The cold, thin metal encircling my neck. The beep and chink sound as the electronic lock closes.

  Then the cold, thin metal encircling my wrists. That same beep and chink as they’re locked behind my back.

  “Go,” Kroda says. I understand his words, but I do not move. If they think I cannot understand their language, maybe I will be lucky enough to overhear their plans. Maybe I will be lucky enough to know when the best time is to make my escape.

  “Humans don’t understand our tongue,” Zuro says, standing up. He seems to bear Kroda no ill will. Perhaps bashing their comrades in the face over their spoils of war is commonplace. “All they understand is the lash.” Zuro unholsters his weapon and makes to strike me with it.

  I cower and f
linch, letting loose a pitiful squeak of fear.

  But he was just feinting a blow, not actually going to hit me. He laughs. Kroda says nothing.

  “Let’s go,” Kroda says. “There’s nothing here. This settlement is nothing but weeds and dirt.”

  “Easy for you to say,” Zuro says, “when you found the only treasure in the weeds and dirt. The lads will be jealous. You’ve found her. Now be prepared to keep her.”

  Kroda starts to walk out of my house and I find that I cannot move. My feet are glued to the spot. This dusty place has been my home for almost eight years now. My parents are buried in the side yard. With a jerk, I stagger forward. I almost fall, since my hands are bound behind my back, but Kroda reaches out his hands to steady me.

  And that’s when I see that he’s holding onto a leash.

  My leash.

  I follow him outside, leaving my home behind. With every step I take, my nightgown shifts and the fabric rubs against my nipples. It’s constantly moving around, sometimes covering me, sometimes threatening to slip off of my shoulder and expose my barcode tattoo.

  There are a group of these red bastards lined up, ready to march. A few hold torches over their shoulders. Others carry satchels, no doubt filled with ill-gotten plunder from my neighbors in the settlement. One of them puts the torch to my house—casually, as if it was a chore to do. It doesn’t catch at first, but then the flames get taller, engulfing everything that is mine.

  Was mine. Now I don’t have anything—not even freedom.

  They all stare at me as Kroda marches me to the front of their column. I feel their eyes on my bare breasts, on my thighs and—when the wind kicks up enough to blow up my nightgown—on my ass. My face is so red from the humiliation, I feel like I must be as red as these Zalaryns.

  “Is that a human?” one of the warriors asks.

  “Of course,” his buddy says, elbowing him and pointing at me, “look at those tits. Only human females have big, round tits like that.”

  “I had a human once,” another says. “There’s a little spot between their legs you gotta touch. Gets them wet and friendly. I’ll show you. Hey, Kroda, lift up her robe, show these lads what I’m talking about. Let them see what a human cunt looks like so they know what to do when they get a turn with her.”

  I hear a beep on my collar and Kroda drops the leash. This is my chance. I start to run, but the collar is frozen in the air, pinning me to the spot. Bastard.

  “No one is getting a turn with her,” Kroda growls at his fellow warriors. The fury in his voice sends a chill to the pit of my stomach. My skin breaks out in goosebumps, waves of the prickly things appearing all over. My nipples stiffen and I hope none of these barbaric aliens notice.

  “Oh, come on,” one of the soldiers says. “Just a quick fuck. What’s it to you? After you break her in, let us have a turn. We all deserve a reward.”

  “You deserve nothing,” Kroda says. “Nothing, unless you can fight to keep it. She is mine. Try to take her from me.” He unhoslters that club-like weapon of his and flips a switch. It makes a whining noise and I know now that it’s no ordinary club.

  “Don’t be so serious,” the soldier says. “We were just asking. We thought that we’d share our female captives.”

  “I do not share,” Kroda says. He puts his weapon away and picks up my leash, unfreezing the collar so I can walk behind him again.

  The other aliens look at me, but they do not ask him again.

  His words ring in my head: a raider owns what he is able to take.

  And now I’ve been taken.

  I am owned.

  Things can always get worse. Of course they can. Only those who lead very charmed and peaceful lives think otherwise.

  We are making camp for the night. A few of the lads make a fire, while the others organize a hunting party—more for the sport than for the sustenance. Captain Ingzan is erecting his tent, a lavish affair made of buffed suede, his family crest hand-stitched on the flaps.

  The rest of us sleep on the floor.

  I set out the bedroll in a spot close to the fire. My captive, Aren, must be freezing out here wearing nothing but a few scraps of rags. I didn’t have time to properly clothe her earlier, but I’ll have to do something about that now.

  She won’t even look at me. I can’t say that I blame her. I hate that I have to do this to her, but there is no other choice. Claiming her as my property is the only way I can keep her safe.

  I need to find something for her to wear. “I will return,” I tell her, but that’s stupid, because she can’t understand my language. She looks up at the sky and I follow her gaze.

  The weather is turning bad. I can feel the atmosphere change. The air is heavier, thicker. The wispy clouds in the red sky are yellow and rapidly darkening. There is an electrified thrumming in the air, tensing my muscles—putting everyone on edge.

  There have been far more squabbles in camp than are usual. Some of that is owed to the failure of the lads’ first raid. They spent their whole lives in the training yard, dreaming of riches, only to land on Yrdat—where the best they could hope to find today was a sack of moldy grain or a rusty hand-shovel.

  It isn’t helping that I’ve got a half-nude female at the end of my leash.

  She’s the most valuable thing in Yrdat. And the lads want one of their own. So they press on, hoping the next settlement on this planet will be teeming with young females so they can collar one for themselves.

  But now that the big red sun has set, taking with it its scant but precious heat, it’s cold. Seriously cold. And the lads are having a change of heart. I hear them muttering, complaining about the wind, predicting rain or—worse—snow. Few of us have ever seen snow, and the rest of us have no wish for today to be the day.

  The tension is thick in the air.

  I hand her one of my protein blocks and my waterskin. “Here,” I say to her. I know she can’t understand me, but I have to say something. “Eat. Rest. I won’t let anyone…” I struggle to find the right word. I suppose it doesn’t matter since she does not know the Zalaryn tongue. “I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

  I swear I see gratitude in her eyes, as if she understands me. I nod, and then set the controls on her collar to hold. It locks in place, preventing the captive from fleeing. She can sit there, she can eat and drink and she can even turn her head side to side—but that collar is frozen in mid-air, keeping her rooted in her spot.

  It will prevent her from running away—but more importantly, it will prevent someone from running away with her.

  I will never let that happen. She is my responsibility. I found her. I collared her.

  And I did it all to protect her.

  Now that I have her, I will guard her with all of my might. That’s what I am: the Captain of the Imperial Guard. I keep things safe.

  And I can never have anything of my own.

  I’ve sworn an oath never to take a mate. Never to sire offspring. Not that she’d have me—that much is obvious.

  It pains me to leave her unattended, but I must have a few private words with the captain. I doubt he’ll listen, but it’s worth a try. He is incompetent to be sure—but most of the time, incompetent people are relieved to be told what to do.

  I approach the captain, shivering a little, rubbing my hands together to warm them. Zalaryns are quite warm-blooded and I’m almost never cold—but this planet is frigid, the cold dry winds biting at my skin. I keep my eye on my human, watching to make sure none of the others get any bad ideas.

  “Captain,” I tell him, quietly, when he is directing a few of the men to move his tent a little to the right. “Raid leaders traditionally sleep as their men do. Sleeping in a tent while the rest of us are in the cold wind sends a poor message.”

  “It sends a fine message,” he says, brushing off my words as if they were no more than idle chat. “It says to the lads, ‘work hard and you might be captain someday, with all the rights and privileges therein.’”

  “Fai
r enough,” I say. I watch as the lads get the poles straight and drape the suede over the top, lashing it down tight. It proves a difficult task as the wind is starting to kick up. “But this weather is foul. We should get back to the ship before morale sinks too low. These boys faced a hard disappointment today. They have never been on a raid. They thought it was going to be like one of the songs that drunkards sing in the taverns. They all thought they’d be up to their armpits in gemstones by now.” As soon as I finish, I realize I have said the wrong thing.

  Because I wasn’t just describing the novice youths who are on the raid. I was describing the captain too. Our captain thought he’d be up to his armpits in gemstones. Our captain thought that raiding a settlement was going to be like the songs. The only bright spot in his day was torturing the old woman.

  “You presume to dictate our course?” he says haughtily. Zuro looks over at us and ambles over.

  “This weather is bad,” I repeat. “Look at the clouds. The dark yellow—”

  “Maybe morale would be higher if you shared that little human of yours,” Zuro interrupts. I ignore his comment and try to appeal to his common sense. He’s the only other seasoned raider in the party. He must know what a fool’s errand this is.

  “We should go back to the ship,” I say. “If these yellow clouds mean what I think they do, we will all be sorry.”

  “Go back empty-handed all because of some yellow clouds?” Captain Ingzan says. “Not my crew. We march until there is nothing left on this planet but ash.”

  “There is already nothing but ash,” I say, and kick the toe of my boot into the dusty ground for emphasis.

  “What’s the matter?” Zuro asks. “You need a big, warm feather bed so you can roll around with that little creature of yours? A hot bath and a haunch of meat? Clean breeches and a maid to rub the blisters on your feet?”