He got to his feet. ‘I’ll show you the basics. We’ll cook something up. There should be some meal packs.’
‘If you get me some ingredients, maybe I can figure out how to cook something fresh?’
‘The ship should have a database of local recipes or can get one. I’ll arrange it tomorrow.’
‘Thank you, T’ney.’
He gave a grunt in reply. ‘I’ll be eating too.’
14.1205 Local.
They had fallen into a pattern. Sheila cooked, learned the language as best she could, and submitted to T’ney whenever he felt the need to assert his control over her. She had read enough magazine articles about rape victims to know that that crime was often more about control than it was about sex. T’ney was not exactly a rapist… The sight of him coming back from wherever he took himself to every day now filled her with dread where once the sight of his face had brought desire. That was partly because his skin was now a reddish shade which made him look more like a demon than a human. Then again, he had got the temptation thing down pat.
When he returned earlier than expected on the fifth day, Sheila’s heart sank, but she began taking off her dress and trying to imagine herself actually enjoying what was going to happen so that it hurt less.
‘I’d love to, tikadori, but we’re going out. Go take a shower, get yourself tidy.’ He had begun calling her that on the second day. Cantarvey did not have the word in her dictionary and she had had no luck in finding anything which suggested its meaning. She hoped it was a cute diminutive.
‘Out? But I’ll freeze.’
‘I’ve got a coat for you to wear. You’ll be fine.’
Frowning, Sheila finished taking her dress off and headed for the shower. ‘Where are we going?’
‘Out.’
‘Yes, but–’
‘I’ve got some friends I want you to meet.’
‘I still don’t know much of the language.’
‘You don’t need to worry about that. I’ll do all the talking.’
Dromdaria.
The city was everything Sheila had expected, and dreaded. It looked like something out of a sci-fi movie, with blue-skinned aliens who still looked alarmingly human dressed in thick clothing as they shuffled among buildings which were tall, dark grey, and grimy. She had seen a film with Harrison Ford in it which looked a bit like this, except that had been nicer. No one seemed too concerned about T’ney, but they watched Sheila pass them by, even though she was dressed in a heavy coat with the hood drawn up. There was enough of her face visible that they could see her skin and that seemed to interest them.
And her feet were freezing. She was still in her ridiculous red heels and they had never been designed for walking on ground which had a half-inch of snow on it. The coat was just about keeping the icy air off most of her skin, but it was creeping up her shins.
That changed as they entered a building through what amounted to an airlock. The temperature in the building was closer to ten degrees and suddenly the coat was far too warm.
‘You can take the coat off in a minute,’ T’ney said.
‘Okay.’
They walked into a smoky room with several men in it. Most were blue-skinned locals, but there was one the same colour as T’ney, one with paler-blue skin and a lot of huge muscles, another with no hair, but ridges decorating his brownish skull… Sheila swallowed hard and followed T’ney further into the room. They seemed to be heading for the red-skinned man, though the others were paying some interest.
‘Give me the coat,’ T’ney said.
She unzipped the garment and slipped it from her shoulders. The cool air chilled her, not uncomfortably, but enough to tighten her nipples and tent the fabric of her dress as T’ney began talking to the other members of his species. She got few of the words, mostly pronouns, and ‘tikadori’ was mentioned several times. They were talking about her, but she could not really understand why.
Then the tone of the conversation changed. She recognised numbers. She had asked Cantarvey to teach her the numbers, because that was always useful, and now T’ney and the others were staring intently at one another and calling out numbers. T’ney would say something high, the other man would say something lower. They were bargaining.
Sheila’s heart leapt into her throat. They were bargaining a price, for her. T’ney had told her he would take her home and he was… She opened her mouth to speak, and that was when the door smashed open.
Guns began to appear as a blast of cold air hit Sheila’s exposed back. She dropped onto her haunches and covered her head and prayed that she was going to live through the next minute as beams of energy lanced through the space around her. There were voices shouting, screams, and then she was being pulled to her feet and a blanket was wrapped around her, and she was hustled to the door by a female figure barely recognisable under the black armour she was wearing.
The last thing Sheila saw as she looked back was T’ney, lying on the floor and twitching as though he had been tasered. It couldn’t have happened to a nicer person.
15.1205 Local.
There had been a lot of questions. She had understood more or less none of them, but she had managed to give her name, and had then just repeated her ‘I don’t speak much Gadek Taved’ phrase a lot. Eventually the policemen asking the questions, well they seemed to be police, shook their heads, growled something, and she had been locked in a cell.
Aside from the woman – the blue-skinned woman with pale-blue hair – who brought in her food, Sheila had seen no one for over a day when two cops showed up at her cell and took her out to what looked like an interview room. Apparently she was under some form of arrest since they sat her in a chair and then manacled her wrists to the sides of it.
A minute or so later, a local walked in, dressed in a sort of cold-environment business suit and carrying a briefcase. He sat down opposite her, gave her a slight smile that got nowhere near his eyes, and opened the case, taking out a laptop computer of some description which he opened and tapped at for a second or two.
‘Anay. Il mona na Unshar Tobritic,’ he said.
‘Hello. My name is Unshar Tobritic,’ said the computer.
‘It’s speaking English!’ Sheila squeaked.
‘Error. Please speak slowly and carefully,’ said the computer.
But Sheila did not get to repeat her statement because the man started speaking and soon enough she was hearing the translation. ‘Your friend or compatriot Mister D’nova told us of the language you speak and we have made this small or simple translator. In the time available, only something very small or simple could be made. Please keep your language small or simple.’
It also seemed that it was not especially good at working out which word to use in context. ‘What happened to T’ney?’
‘Mister D’nova is a criminal. He was desired for large or complex time. His crimes are large or complex. Including or fitting into sale of sentient beings.’
‘No kidding.’
‘Error. “Kidding” is unknown.’
‘Uh… What’s going to happen to me? Can I go home?’
The man smiled his unreal smile again. ‘I am a lawyer or parasitic worm.’ Well it was nice to know some concepts were universal. ‘I have been made your lawyer or parasitic worm. We can not send you home.’ Then the computer stopped and barked something at the lawyer. Maybe he had said something too complex for it. ‘You are criminal not from here.’ The man held up a hand to stop her as her eyes widened and she opened her mouth to protest. They thought she was an illegal immigrant! ‘Your condition or circumstances or state not normal. StarCorps will be called or messaged or notified. They can make you to home.’
StarCorps? T’ney had said they would kill her for being there when they killed him. Then again, T’ney had so far proven to be a lying sack of shit…
‘Until then,’ the computer voice continued, ‘you must make to go prison.’
‘Prison?’
‘There is nowhere else.
I must take details or small parts of you.’ He took out another computer, this one some sort of tablet, presumably for making notes. ‘What is your name?’
Sheila opened her mouth to respond with the automatic answer, and then paused. Was she Sheila McDermott anymore? She was on an alien world, her husband was unfaithful anyway, and she somehow doubted she was ever going to see him again.
‘I am Sheila Napier,’ she said firmly.
Veldro Prison, Outside Dromdaria.
At least it was warm. Veldro prison had an alien wing which was kept at a warm house temperature, maybe twenty Celsius. Since the locals were acclimatised to much cooler conditions, all the guards were robots, even if they were built to a humanoid design. At least from Sheila’s view this was another plus since someone had uploaded the translator program to them before her arrival and they could all speak to her in English. At least she could follow their orders.
Two other aliens were being processed into the system before her and she waited patiently because all of the android guards had some sort of laser gun mounted on their arms and she was not anxious to find out what it did. Besides, it gave her a chance to look around and conclude that she was in Hell. The place was dirty, ugly, and very solid-looking. The walls were either thick concrete or metal. There were cameras everywhere.
When she stepped up to the counter to be checked through into processing, things just got worse.
‘Confirm your name is Shil N’pier,’ the robot said.
‘What? No. Sheila Napier.’
The robot looked at her. ‘Confirm your name is Shil N’pier.’
Well that was just great. The stupid lawyer had written down something vaguely like what he had heard and they thought she was called ‘Shil N’pier.’ And there was absolutely nothing she could do about it.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘that is me.’
She half listened as the computerised voice droned on about what was going to happen to her, but somehow it no longer mattered. She had lost her husband long ago, then her world, her lover, and now they had taken away her name. There was nothing else they could do to her unless they were going to execute her, and right now that seemed like it would be a mercy.
Part Two: Shil
It’s said by many that prison is a transformative experience. In my case metaphor took things a little too literally.
– The Memoirs of Shil the Huntress.
Veldro Prison, Alien Wing, Dromeli, 105.1205 Local Calendar.
‘What do you see, Shil?’ Rayan asked in a soft voice.
Sheila was just Shil now. What she thought of as a nickname was close enough to her real name that it almost felt like she was still Sheila and she liked it. Only the guards and her useless lawyer called her Shil N’pier.
They were in the common room of the prison’s alien wing, which was where they spent a significant portion of the day, and it looked the same as it ever did, but Sheila had grown used to Rayan’s odd questions, and she looked around while doing her best not to appear to be looking around. The old woman was her cellmate, a lurian with skin the colour of jade and pale-green eyes. Her hair had, according to her, once been a rich emerald, but now it was nearing white. She had taken Sheila under her wing and that was one of the reasons she was still alive after ninety days in the prison.
‘The guard on the north exit has faulty ankle joint,’ Sheila said after a second. Her Gadek Taved was not exactly smooth, but it was understandable. The fluidity of the language was severely hampered by the fact that it was not a very pretty tongue to begin with.
‘Left or right?’
‘Left. It not straighten properly. Lop has smuggled more of that drug in. His eyes are red and glazed.’
‘Good, anything else?’
Sheila shifted in her seat, apparently finding a more comfortable position to read in. Her book was meant for school children, but at least she could read most of it now, if slowly. She caught sight of the other reason she was still alive. ‘Narad is watching… that new man… Brodimak. I have seen that look on his face time gone.’
‘Yes. Suggestion?’
‘Leave to cell.’
‘Most wise.’
Rayan swept to her feet with a smoothness which belied her age and Sheila followed quickly after her. Up three sets of iron stairs and around a quarter of the circular room. The sound of the fight reached their ears just as they walked in through the cell door, which closed and sealed about ten seconds later. The next phase, if the fight did not stop soon enough, would be flooding the common room with a soporific gas, but it was fairly likely that Brodimak would be dead before it took effect.
‘Have you always seen so well?’ Rayan asked as she stretched out on her bunk, the bottom of the two.
Sheila considered the question. Her time in prison had certainly improved her observational skills, and she had learned more than she ever wanted to know about how to behave around criminals, but she had always seen what there was to see when she chose to see it. She had spent a long time trying not to see things that were right in front of her, a decision which Lindsey had disliked a lot.
‘When I wanted to,’ she said.
Rayan glanced at her, hearing the pain in the words, but she did not ask for an explanation. Instead she said, ‘Narad will want you when he wakes up.’
‘Yes.’ Narad was a man of simple tastes. One of them was violence and the other was women. Apparently, Sheila had an exotic skin colour which he found attractive; several of the men in the wing had expressed an interest when she had arrived, largely by feeling her up since, at the time, she spoke very little of any language they understood. Narad had laid claim to her and no one stood up to Narad, except Rayan, and Sheila.
Irritated at her treatment by the others, Sheila had slammed her elbow into the huge man’s jaw when he made a grab at her the first time. She was fairly certain it had hurt her more than him, but he had roared with laughter and declared, according to what Rayan told her later, that a tiny bit of a woman like Sheila possessed more fire than any of the worms he was locked up with. Which was great as long as he never found out she had spent ten minutes throwing up in the toilets after she had run from him. The self-defence classes she had taken had really not prepared her to actually defend herself, just how to do it if she had to.
‘He doesn’t hurt you?’ Rayan asked. It was a question she asked every so often, apparently expecting a different answer at some point. Maybe she knew what had happened to his previous favourite, or maybe she was just expecting him to be a violent lover. He was violent about more or less everything else.
‘He is not bad. He is… small care.’ She felt her cheeks colouring, but she went on with what she was going to say anyway. ‘He is much big… uh…’ Her vocabulary failed her at that point since she had never asked much about anatomy.
‘I understand.’ The old woman was smirking. ‘Lucky that you are flexible.’
Worried that her cheeks might ignite, Sheila looked around for a distraction, which she was unlikely to get in the small, metal-walled room, but there it was. The red light above the door had started flashing, indicating that the door was locked, but going outside was unsafe anyway. ‘Gas.’
‘Good. They will be quiet now.’
~~~
Narad watched from his bunk as Sheila undressed. The prison uniform was ludicrous, but it had a very clever purpose and she could not fault the logic. There was a short tank-top-cum-bra for the women, in dark blue, over which went a looser mesh-weave top in a variety of colours which indicated the category of crime they were in for. The men got only the looser top. Sheila’s top was yellow, indicating a low-grade crime. Narad and Rayan wore red which meant they had both killed people. Finishing the outfit were tight blue-and-gold shorts and light sneakers in gold. Anyone, even a native, going outside in an outfit like that would freeze.
‘Brodimak was enemy?’ she asked as she pulled her inner tank-top over her head.
Narad gave a soft growl of what she hoped was lust; the
man had a fixation on her breasts. ‘Was enemy. Now nothing. Was traitor. I waited long to end him.’
She looked at him, giving him a slight smile which she hoped showed none of her disgust. In truth, after ninety days in Veldro, she was not as disgusted as she would have wished. And, if she were honest, Narad was not that bad to look at. He had skin the colour of a ripe, red grape and a number of tattoos which she thought looked tribal but were probably just stylistic. He shaved his head, which had a ridged angularity to it that definitely said he was not human but did not make him look freakishly inhuman either. He was about seven feet tall and his muscles were thickly laid over solid bones. The erection he was sporting was suitably large too. Rayan had told her he was a grenimal, a species notable for their aggressive nature which was partially because violence made them sexually excited. Narad got into a lot of fights.
Naked, she went to the bed. Somehow she had expected that a man like this would want to be on top, but he only very rarely took control in their encounters. He would lie there and wait for her to mount him. Her job was to control the pace and prolong the experience as long as possible and, if she said so herself, she was getting pretty good at it.
Today as she straddled his legs and prepared herself, she stopped, frowning. There was a deep gash in Narad’s right shoulder which looked like it needed stitches. ‘He hurt you!’ She was a little surprised at the outrage in her own voice.
‘It’s nothing,’ he replied. His left hand reached up to tease at her nipple.
‘After do, go Rayan. She fix.’
His angular features shifted into a slight smile. ‘After. First I see Shil dance.’
~~~
Sheila could not understand what Rayan and Narad talked about unless they decided she needed to. The old woman spoke his native language; she seemed to speak more or less all the languages Sheila had heard among the prisoners. Since Sheila only spoke kindergarten Gadek Taved, she could not understand them, but she got the feeling that Rayan was cursing him for a fool for not having a doctor look at his cut.
The Eyes of the Huntress (Shil the Huntress Book 1) Page 3