Captured by the Alien Warrior_A Sci-Fi Alien Romance

by Viki Storm

  Dear void. The destruction. The death. The subjugation. The Kraxx breed as fast as insectoids. They have long proboscis-like phalluses—not like the cocks that Zalaryn and many other male species have. They are at least two feet long, and are barbed with thick, curved scales. They insert into the female species birth canal, deposit their pulsing, hideous egg-sacks, and withdraw, those barbs scraping and tearing as they do so. It’s an evolutionary tactic as brutal as the Kraxx themselves—tear and injure a female’s birth canal after depositing the eggs, so that she won’t be in any condition to take another mate, ensuring that it’s your genetic material she carries.

  Kraxx DNA is not compatible with many species, but they have another hideous survival mechanism. If they gather female genetic material elsewhere, a male Kraxx can store it for months until it is ready to be deposited in an appropriate host. He can deposit an egg sac of several hundred into one female birth canal. When the eggs hatch, the offspring will feast upon the female host, devouring her from the inside out.

  If given free access to minerals, the Kraxx will decimate entire populations— overtake and overpopulate every quadrant in the known universe within a few generations.

  And all these rebels are clapping at the idea.

  To keep from screaming, I look off into the distance and see a familiar sight. The Screaming Talon.

  And I have an idea.

  I spit the pill out the moment that my jailer closes the door and I hear the electronic beep of the lock. It is a giant thing—bitter and tasting faintly of soap.

  I’m at the auction house, held in a small room—though cell is a more appropriate word for it. There’s a small bench that I could lie down on, if it had a pillow or blanket. There’s a small toilet and sink. And a bowl of thin, watery gruel. The gruel is actually the only good thing about this place. After seeing the fat squirming grubs that the protein bricks are made of, I’m not sure I want to eat one of those oily things ever again.

  I know what this pill is for. It’s hard to keep it in my mouth for so long, the coating dissolving and bitter granules stinging the inside of my cheek. But I do it. I put it in my mouth, tucking it between my teeth and cheek. It’s so big that it feels like it’s protruding beneath my skin like an abscess, but the jailer says nothing. He only nods and leaves me.

  Then I spit it out.

  Maybe it’s the naive, immature, foolish part of me again. The foolish part of me that thought if Droka and I became bonded mates than his vows and my Mark would not matter. The naive part of me that didn’t really think that I’d be caged an auctioned off to some alien brothel owner. The immature part of me that didn’t listen to reason—that knew the consequences would be dire, but acted anyway, just because I wanted to.

  Because I am foolish to spit out this pill. And naive. And immature.

  After the peacekeepers bring me here, I’m processed by the staff. The first step is the doctor, who strips my clothes off and starts poking and prodding between my legs. Droka’s seed is still sticky on my thighs, still dripping from my sex. “Stupid female,” he mutters. “Impure.”

  He tells me to sit up and he examines the rest of my body, giving me a vision test, a hearing test, inspecting my teeth for rotten patches. I feel like a horse at the market. Then, he says, he’ll send a pill to take care of my stupid mistake.

  And even though the Zalaryns have a lot of technology, I don’t think they have a pill that will turn me into a virgin again.

  It must be a pregnancy preventative pill. I heard about girls or wives sometimes brewing teas to prevent pregnancy when I was on Earth, but I was young and didn’t quite understand it. Now I do.

  If I’m to become a brothel’s exotic human pleasure slave, my new owner will not want me impregnated.

  But I spit it out. It seems criminal to suppress the natural outcome of an act… that felt so right.

  Oh void, I was just going to say an act of love.

  Was that it? Love? Do Zalaryns even feel love? More importantly, can I?

  It’s foolish to spit out the pill. As if the possibility of a child kindling inside my womb would change my circumstances—that the brothel owner, after seeing my swollen belly, would have a change of heart. Yeah, right. Foolish. Because if there is such a life kindling, when the evidence becomes clear in a few months, there’ll be a much bigger price to pay.

  Still. I can’t bring myself to do it.

  These aliens Marked me when I was twelve years old. I became their property. And though I tried to hide, they found me, and I’ve been passed from one master to another. Stripped naked more than once—my body poked and examined and leered at, my entire worth boiled down to the holes that can bring a Zalaryn male a few moments of fleeting pleasure.

  So fuck them. They can’t make me do everything.

  I’m not sure how much time passes. There are no windows in my little room. The only way I can keep track of the time is by the bowls of gruel that one of the staff members, an alien who calls himself Osyr, brings me. But I don’t feel like eating, so it’s hard to say how long it’s been.

  I mostly lie down on the bench, but the cold metal makes it impossible to relax. But maybe the fact that I’m about to be sold as a pleasure slave is the real reason I can’t relax.

  Then suddenly, the door flies open without warning and I see Osyr standing in the doorway. He looks angry—but then again, that’s how he always looks. “Prepare yourself for auction,” he says. I don’t exactly know what that means. He has a metal tray with a small cake of soap, a towel and a metal razor blade. “You will wash and shave all your hair.” He stops to think for a moment, perhaps grasping for the right word. “From here, here and here.” He points to his armpit, his legs and his groin to illustrate. He wants me to shave my underarms, legs and pubic hair? That is so bizarre—but I’ve been through so much that this request is hardly the worst of it. When I don’t make a move for the tray, he adds, “If you do not do so willingly, I will get a few helpers to hold you down and do it. I rather think you’d prefer this task be left in your own hands?”

  “Yes,” I say. I want to take that razor blade and slice open his neck. But, of course, I don’t.

  I wash and shave, recoiling at the bare skin between my legs. I’m horrified at the fact that I will be inspected and ogled by these alien bastards—that they’ll be able to see my bare lips, my pink inner flesh. But that’s not my main concern as I look down and see my hairless sex.

  I wonder if Droka would like it. And that’s surely stupid, because it doesn’t matter now. I’m never going to see him again.

  Unless perhaps he patronizes the pleasure house where I end up enslaved.

  Droka. The thought of him makes me tremble even harder, and I’m not sure if it’s longing or hate that I feel.

  Did he report me? Was this his doing? Thinking they would find me eventually, did he decide that it was better to turn me over sooner rather than later? Because it wouldn’t be proper if the Captain of the Imperial Guard was found harboring a stolen Marked female. That wouldn’t be proper at all.

  My heart knows that it isn’t true. That he would never do that. But if not him, then who?

  Osyr comes back with a collar and a leash in his hand. “Come on,” he says. “He said to go ahead and auction you off. He’s not interested if you’re impure.”

  “What are you talking about?” I say. I realize that I’m in no position to ask questions, but giving me some information is the least he can do.

  “The male who wished to purchase you,” he says. “Females are almost always auctioned, but in special situations, a male can purchase a female directly. It requires considerable status and money, so it’s not common.”

  My heart starts to pound in my chest. I can see my ribcage bulging under my skin with every beat. Who wished to purchase me? Was it Droka? He’s got enough status, doesn’t he? Except for that damned oath to take no mates. But then, Osyr says that the buyer isn’t interested anymore. That can’t be Droka, can it?

>   “Who wished to purchase me?” I say. I am surprised by the own anger and authority in my voice. It’s not the voice of the fugitive dirt-farmer on Yrdat.

  It’s the voice of the bonded mate to the Captain of the Imperial Guard.

  “You better not act this way in front of the customers,” he says, but I notice that his eyes are softer—that the corners of his mouth are raised in what might be a smile. “But I will tell you. Captain Commander Ingzan. He said that you were a fugitive. That he apprehended you, but you escaped. He notified the peacekeepers and told them to look for you at the fortress in the company of a certain guardsman. The facts seem to bear out his story, wouldn’t you say? He put a fair amount of coin down as a deposit for you.”

  “But he changed his mind?” I ask.

  “It was on the condition of your purity. Since you’ve been defiled,” Osyr says, sadness and irritation reclaiming his face, “He says to sell you off.”

  My head is spinning. It was Ingzan who reported me? The sick bastard.

  Osyr steps forward and puts a collar around my neck, and then binds my hands behind my back and tells me to walk. When I hesitate, he uses a thin, flexible switch across the back of my thighs. The pain is bright and white and I yelp in pain and confusion.

  “I have spoken plainly to you, but do not let that cloud your thinking,” he says. “Never forget that you are second-class merchandise. You are the leftovers no one wants. You will listen and you will obey. You should hope someone is stupid enough to buy a dirty, used cunt like yours. Any coin you can get for it will be more than you deserve.”

  I tremble with rage and frustration. But I walk. Oh yes, I walk. I don’t want him to use that switch on me again. I can’t help think that if Droka was here, he’d find a creative place to put that switch. Perhaps in Osyr’s eye.

  My jailer tells me to stop when we get to the end of a long hallway. “Smile. Be nice. Don’t speak unless spoken to. Follow all instructions. Obey all commands. All commands.” He emphasizes this last part. Does he really mean all commands? He must, because he says it twice.

  I hold my breath and step out onto the auction floor.

  Despite all of this, I’m glad that I mated with Aren. That we bonded. The release and exchange of genetic materials altered my hormones enough to turn my torso back to its original red color. It was difficult going around with that hot purple flush—and achingly full balls. I barely blend in to this crowd of rebels as it is, but it would be impossible to pass by undetected with my desire and lust broadcast on my chest in a bright purple patch.

  My imagination reels with images of horrible things that could happen to her. Before leaving, I sent a comm to the auction house, asking when they were going to auction off the newest batch of pleasure slaves. I received a reply that there was an auction for virgin breeding mates that very evening, but if I was interested in the disgraced females—ones who have already accepted the genetic material of another—then I’d have to wait until next week, when they had a new shipment coming in from Earth.

  My fists clenched when I read those words. Disgraced? There was nothing disgraceful in what we did. The custom that would take a male’s mate and sell her as a brothel slave—that is a disgrace. The foolish oath-breaker who dishonored his vows, who took her virginity when it was not his to take—he is disgraceful.

  Yet she bears the weight of consequences. Grave though they be.

  How in the sickly dark void did the peacekeepers know that she was in my chambers? No one knew.

  That’s not entirely true. And entire ship-full of rebels know she’s Marked. Captain Ingzan knows. Admiral Superior Zuro knows. Either one of those parasites could have alerted the peacekeepers just out of spite.

  Which is why I want to use the Screaming Talon as the instrument of my destruction.

  As I near the ship, I hold my head high and infuse my stride with confidence and purpose. I walk as if I am walking down the corridors of the Imperial Fortress. There’s one sentry lazing at the entrance—some hapless lad who was picked for the task of guarding Noxu’s son’s ship. I don’t spare him a look.

  My hand is on the latch for the main hatch when he musters the nerve to speak. “Halt,” he says, but he’s a nervous lad—asking me to halt, not commanding me.

  “What?” I say. I look into his eyes, boring into them with all my fury. He seems to shirk back and I realize he is very young. All these rebels are very young. A whole generation of Zalaryn males so hopeless and despairing of their future that they decide to cast their lot with Noxu. How bleak must their futures seem if this is the preferable alternative? The strain of not having any Zalaryn females, I fear, has reached its lowest point. Generation after generation we have managed. We’ve taken human females from Earth and other human settlements, and it has been enough to maintain our population—but just barely.

  And now these lads see a pointless future. They are asked to raid for the good of their planet, to ensure the survival of their race—but they can’t contribute to the survival of their race in the most meaningful way: by mating and producing offspring. For the vast, vast majority of this generation of males, there is no possibility for mates and offspring unless they happen to strike it lucky on a raid and get very rich.

  And who is offering them the opportunity to get very, very rich?

  Noxu, of course.

  It’s no wonder. We should have seen this coming generations ago. Xalax’s father, the former High King, should have been working on some solution to this problem. There’s no way our breeding program with the human females is sustainable long-term.

  And our term just ran out.

  We bought this rebellion. All of us—the entire Zalaryn race. With our greedy use of the qizo minerals before we properly studied their effects. With our cold casting aside of our own females, impatient with their deformities and weakness. With our eagerness to take whatever species had compatible DNA. With our short-sightedness. With our auction house that excludes most warriors from being able to mate, denying most of our population the irrepressible biological instinct to reproduce.

  We bought this rebellion.

  And the price is dear.

  “What is your business with Captain Ingzan? He is not aboard the Talon,” the guard says, doing his best impression of a fearsome male.

  “And when he returns,” I say, inwardly relieved. I had gambled on the fact that Ingzan would be away. “He will be looking for a skull to smash if his ship is not prepared for his pleasure slave.”

  “Pleasure slave?” the guard says. Just the mention of a pleasure slave turns his eyes into glazed orbs bulging in their sockets.

  “Yes, and I am tasked with preparing his chambers for her arrival.” I gesture to my travel sack.

  He swallows hard, his youth and inexperience plain on his face, and I feel a twinge of pity for this little lost soul. “Is she human?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I say, “from the planet of Delictera.” This is a planet in the second quadrant, famed for priestesses who worship at the altar of pleasure—their fabled arts known through the universe.

  “How’d he get one?” he asks.

  “Not by any means available to a watch guard like you,” I say unkindly, berating him the way a superior is supposed to berate his subordinates. I have already explained myself more than would be customary.

  “Of course,” he says. He opens the hatch for me. “My humility is at your feet, yours to crush,” he says, the traditional offering of apology.

  “I should hope to lift it up instead,” I say, accepting his apology.

  I have one foot inside the ship when rough hands clamp on both of my shoulders.

  “Who is this?” he says. I know the voice. It is Admiral Superior Zuro.

  “I am preparing the ship for the captain’s pleasure slave,” I say, sticking to my story.

  “Unless you’re going to chain yourself up and offer your arse to him,” he says. “I think you a liar.”

  “Sir?” the guard says.
And I know he’s not talking to me. I’m not the ranking officer anymore.

  “You were going to let this traitor into the captain’s ship?” Zuro hisses. I feel specks of spittle fly onto the back of my neck. “The ship of the son of our Lord High Commander Noxu? The biggest question is why such a vessel is guarded by a simple-minded dung beetle like you.”

  Zuro strikes the lad down. Blood drips from his lips and sticks in thick droplets on the dusty ground. “My humility—” but that’s as far as he gets before Zuro bludgeons him on the head with his deactivated anankah.

  Zuro has let go of my shoulders, and at first I think him a fool—but when I scan the surroundings, looking for an out, there is not much hope. We are a distance away from the main camp. There’s no proper docking bay on New Pallas, and each craft lands where it may. Nothing but dust and craggy rocks in three directions. Nothing but a horde of bloodthirsty rebels in the forth.

  Sometimes, the only way out is through.

  I seize the end of his anankah and piston it backwards, so that the haft strikes him in the nose. He shrieks, but does not let go of his weapon. Since I cannot take it from his grip, I relinquish my own grip on it and strike a blow to his midsection. He doubles over from the pain and the shock, and that is when I drive my knee at full force into his face. His nose crumbles with a sickening crunch. He takes in air with wet gargling gasps.

  But he is a hard-headed bastard and does not go down.

  He sweeps his leg across my own and I fall to the ground with so much sudden force that my teeth snap together with a sick hollow clonk that I can feel down in the tips of my toes.

  He starts to charge his anankah, but that is foolish too. And his eyes are on his weapon, instead of where they should be: on my arms.

  I lunge up, tackling him at the waist. I land on top of him, driving the air out of his lungs. He whoofs a noxious cloud of breath onto my face, spraying me with blood. His nose looks like a chewed-up wad of meat, but his eyes are clear and burning with hate.