by Viki Storm
Either this guy’s crazy or I am.
That’s when everything goes black.
When I wake up, I realize that I was wrong. Neither one of us is nuts.
This is real.
And I am indeed fucked.
Chapter 2
Anax
Time to get the convict back home. Home. What a cruel joke that is.
Phuru is as close to home as I’ll ever have, but it’s not even close. I hate everything about this place. Myself most of all for staying.
The habitable zones are only habitable because they’re enclosed in a biosphere, climate-controlled, gravity-controlled, oxygen-controlled. But that’s the Phurusians, obsessed with control. I think they like living here because they get to plan and optimize everything. Phurusians do have great minds; I can’t argue with that.
The convict is still protesting. She descended into a fit of hysterics when I apprehended her, and I had no choice but to subdue her before travel. Humans don’t respond well to supra-light speed travel.
And criminals don’t respond well to being caught.
I guide my ship into my designated landing port and power down the engine. The livery engineers arrive and start the prescribed maintenance routine. They’re on-time and efficient, just like everything on this planet. Everyone has a job, every job has a prescribed manner for optimized efficiency, every detail has been tested and refined for maximum perfection quotients.
I open the hatch of the sleep pod and stare down at the human. I have to admit that she doesn’t look like she’d be capable of killing anyone. Her body is too small and weak—and her human mind is surely too feeble.
Phurusians are a lot of things, but they are not easy to outsmart. If the Grand Council has declared her a murderer, then she is a murderer.
The crime is in her heart—in her destiny.
The Magistrates will know what to do with her, but truth is, I can already guess what her fate will be. The same punishment as all the females of reproductive age.
I load a stimulant capsule into the hypodermic gun. I judge her mass to be between fifty-five and sixty kilograms and dial the delivery mechanism accordingly. I press the tip into the meaty haunch of her hip and hit the button, sending 250 milligrams of the adenosine receptor antagonist into her system.
“Earth female,” I say. While she was unconscious, I installed a translator implant into the left frontal lobe, but I have not tested her encoding and decoding capabilities. I can only hope that she understands what I say. “Wake,” I say, this time more loudly. Her eyelids squinch shut and she attempts to turn away, but her landing harness is bound tightly around her torso. “We have arrived. The Magistrates will begin your arraignment shortly.” I take my comm-panel out of my travel pouch and look up the timetable. The formal proceedings begin in an hour, where she’ll likely be arraigned, tried and sentenced in one hearing.
By tonight, she’ll be serving her sentence. And as dishonorable as it is, I feel a small thrill of excitement imagining her nude and collared. But immediately I’m disgusted at myself for even thinking of using a female that way, one who is under the bonds of servitude.
Not that she’d ever be made available for my use. The high-tier Phurusians always get first choice when new females are sentenced and put to work. A Kenorian like me? We rank lower than the Phurusians who muck out the stalls of the livestock.
I reach down and unbuckle her harness, then lift her out of the sleep pod easily, as her body is frail and lacks sturdy musculature.
“Hey,” she says. “Put me down. Stop.” The stimulant has not yet taken full effect yet, and her speech is slow and slurred, but she does speak in the correct target language. She wiggles and kicks her feet, and for some reason the feel of her warm body struggling against my own is increasing my shameful desire to use her once she’s sentenced. I’m disgusted at myself for wanting to—for wanting to be a part of the decadent and vile treatment of females on this planet. But there’s something about this Earth female that makes me forget my scruples.
Her body is small, but I was wrong when I said she was weak. Compared to me, she’s no match, but for a creature of her size, her limbs are lithe and quick.
“You will walk,” I say. I’m not asking her. I set her down and expect her to try to run, even though we are still on the ship and there is nowhere to go. But when I set her down she just looks at me, a mixture of fear and hate seething in her eyes.
“No,” she says.
“Yes,” I say. Humans are irrational, so I do not try to reason with her.
“Not until you tell me what’s going on,” she demands. As if someone in her position has a right to demand anything. “Mostly, how did you disguise yourself as a human? Are you a shapeshifter? Do you have a name?”
“I am Anax. I cannot transform my physical form,” I tell her. Maybe if I explain a little of what’s going on it will make her more tractable. “I used a piece of technology to project an illusion so that I would blend into my surroundings.”
“Okay, and now you talk normally. Before, you sounded like a robot.”
“It was part of the illusory image generator. It interferes with signals from my language implant.”
“Language implant?” she says under her breath. “Hey, I can understand you, are you speaking English?”
“While you were in the sleep pod, I installed a translator chip into your cranium. It sends signals to encode and decode any language you encounter. It has over three thousand natural lexicons in its database.”
“Do I want to know how you installed it?” she asks.
“A thin metal tube inserted into the left nostril, then a—”
“No, I don’t want to know, thanks,” she says. “And we’re on a planet called Phuru, where I’m going to be put on trial for murder?”
“Yes,” I say. “I already read the charges against you. You have been arrested for the crime of murder. You will be adjudicated here on Phuru.”
“How can they try me for murder when I haven’t done it yet?” she asks. Those blazing, angry eyes turn to me, pleading, glossy with tears that her pride forbids her from shedding. And all of a sudden I feel an overwhelming flood of pity for this wretched creature. She is a human, after all, raised on a primitive planet and completely ignorant of the ways of the rest of the Universe. On Earth, the creatures are so pleasure-driven, so emotionally charged, they’ve let their best societies decay into decadence and vanity. Although, the ‘best’ human societies will be no great loss when they finally fall. It is why other races don’t bother making contact with Earth. No point. The planet is doomed. And even if it wasn’t, the humans are so far below the other societies that there would be nothing to gain by contact. The humans of Earth would likely become a bloated tick on the hide of some other planet, leeching resources and knowledge and protection from its host, glutting with selfish, never-ending hunger.
“You will commit this murder,” I say, not unkindly. She probably has no concept of neural forecasting or supra-light speed travel or any of the other things that every other society in the Universe takes for granted. “I can try to explain it, but it is unlikely that you can understand. Human technology is… primitive.”
“Try me,” she says. And all at once, that defiance is back, the anger and pride palpable in equal measure.
“The Phurusians can predict future behavior based on past actions and the structural configuration of neural pathways.” I don’t bother explaining the complexity of the data modeling, the billions of advanced behavior simulations that run every second, the cranial mapping that proves that the differences in specific neuron structures cause behavioral and cognitive abnormalities.
“That’s nonsense,” she says. “You can’t use a data model to predict human behavior. We’re too unpredictable.”
“That much is true,” I say. “Lesser lifeforms are governed by irrational and unreasonable impulses. Their behavior is much harder to forecast, but it can be done. Everything can be modele
d—you just need the right equation.”
“Bullshit,” she says.
“Typical response of a lesser lifeform when confronted with facts that they do not understand. Stubborn rejection of the knowledge. This is why your race is stunted and your planet is inevitably doomed.”
“Lesser lifeform?” she says. Her teeth are grinding together, and I think I must have given her too big a dose of the stimulant. Her pupils are dilating, and the pale skin of her throat and chest are mottled red.
“Yes,” I say. I know that there’s no bigger fool’s errand than to lay out a logical argument to convince a lesser lifeform of their inferiority.
“Alright then, if I’m so stupid, answer this—”
“I did not say you were stupid,” I insist. “That’s like calling a thimble stupid because it cannot hold a liter of water. You simply lack capacity.”
“Gee, that makes me feel better,” she says. “But listen to me. These Phoenicians or whatever, they can predict that I’m going to kill someone based on my past? Okay, I believe that. Hell, I believe in ghosts, so I guess I can believe that crazy-smart aliens have a supercomputer that can reduce all human actions into some sort of numerical data set and then run the data through simulations and decide with a certain degree of probability that a crime will be committed in the future.”
I’m stunned because that’s an eerily accurate, though rudimentary, description of how the Phurusian behavior modeling and neural forecasting works. It doesn’t change the fact that she’s guilty. The Phurusians know their stuff. I have to admit it, the bastards are good at what they do.
“How in the hell can I kill someone in outer space unless you bring me here? Just take me back to Earth and there’s no way I’ll be able to kill any of you jerks. Right? Let me go back to my lesser lifeform planet where my lesser lifeform technology will prevent my traveling to faraway galaxies and I won’t be a threat. Isn’t this some sort of fallacy or paradox? The only way I can kill someone is if you bring me here, but you’re only bringing me here because I will kill someone? For a bunch of higher lifeforms,” she says, scorn dripping from her voice, “you guys are pretty stupid.”
“I am not a Phurusian,” I say. I bristle involuntarily at the implication. Even though she has no way of knowing a Narhardi from a Brahvan, I still hate the thought of being denied my true heritage.
I’m a Kenorian warrior, even if Kenor is gone.
“I don’t care what you are,” she snaps. “Even if you’re just some sort of hired thug, you have to understand the stupidity of this whole thing.”
“I understand that Phurusian behavior modeling is never wrong,” I say. This much is true. “I don’t know how they do it, but it’s 100-percent accurate.”
“If you take me back to Earth,” she says, “I won’t be able to kill anyone.”
“Negative,” I say. “You will. I don’t know how, but you will. Don’t argue. Don’t try to understand it.” I’m starting to get impatient. I want to get her to the magistrates and be done with this mission. Every mission leaves me feeling resentful of the Phurusians. For all their optimization, they assign me to complete simple tasks below my skill level. I’m a Kenorian warrior, damn it, not some damn package carrier, shuttling criminals around the galaxy.
She scowls again, but she must realize that it’s futile to resist.
The criminal gapes as I take her through the city streets towards the towering Hall of Justice. Again I feel that little pinprick of pity for her. She was an ignorant Earthling up until a few hours ago, no idea of the countless planets and races in her own galaxy; then she wakes up on another planet surrounded by beings that must look strange to her, buildings and technology that are as foreign as they are awe-inspiring.
The Hall of Justice is a massive building with a spire reaching towards the sky—and almost getting there. It’s where the Phurusians mine data from all over the universe, running scans and simulations, identifying miscreants and traitors.
It’s also where the miscreants and traitors are tried and sentenced.
“What the holy hell is that?” the criminal asks. She’s stopped walking, and I almost crash into her on the pathway. She points her cuffed hands and I follow her gaze.
A Phurusian male has taken a Narhardi female bent over a parked street-vehicle, rutting at her from behind while a second Phurusian takes her mouth. She wears the bright red collar of a convict but nothing else.
Phurusians are tall—taller than Kenorians—but they lack all but the most minimally basic musculature. Their skin has lost its pigmentation after generations of living in the controlled environment of the bio-dome. You can see their beating hearts through their skin if the lighting is right. Their limbs are long, and their fingers are twice the length of a Kenorian’s. They have no fingernails, and for some reason, this is their most disturbing physical feature to me.
“That female in the red collar?” I ask. “She is a criminal.” Her face goes blank. I know what she’s thinking: that she’s a criminal, too.
“But,” she stammers, “I mean, why? Right out here on the street like that?”
“A criminal must pay a debt to society. A crime causes tangible, measurable harm. And it must be rectified.”
“How is… that going to balance the scales of justice?” she says.
“It’s not,” I admit. The Phurusian penal system is harsh and serves the Phurusian interests more than it balances the scales of justice. “But each criminal must pay a debt according to their unique talents or skills. A Kenorian, for example, would be sentenced to manual labor, digging trenches or breaking mineral ore. A Brahvan would be sentenced to installing wiring harnesses.”
“And what of that?” the captive asks, pointing to the display of physical lust on the street. I shrug.
“I have no knowledge of that particular case,” I say. “But she must not have any other skills or talents to offer planet Phuru. Females are often sentenced as pleasure slaves and breeding vessels.”
“Breeding?” she asks. “The Phoenicians can breed with other races?”
“Some,” I say. “Many races share enough similar DNA to successfully breed.” Except the Kenorians. There are very few races with which we can breed—which is why our race is almost extinct.
“What about humans?” she asks. I can tell she doesn’t want to know the answer.
“Yes, Phurusians can breed with humans,” I tell her. I’m not going to hide the truth. “But you shouldn’t feel bad for that female. She is a criminal. And her sentence is not as bad as his.” I cock my thumb at a collared male Phurusian. He lifts the lid to the underground septic system and lowers himself down.
“What’s he doing?” she asks. “It doesn’t look that bad.” She sneaks another look at the rutting Phurusians and the female convict before quickly turning away.
“This bio-dome has an underground septic system. All of the excrement is funneled into a subterranean channel where it flows out of the city. There’s probably a clog somewhere, and he’s being sent to fix it.”
“That’s pretty bad,” she says.
Even from across the street, we can hear the low grunting of the males and, surprisingly, the increasingly frantic moaning of the female. Despite the disgust I feel at these degenerates rutting in the street, my loins stir a little at the carnal display.
“Jeez, it’s like a porno,” the Earth female says.
“Like a what?” I ask.
“Never mind,” she says. “Can we get going? They’re disturbing me.”
“Me, too,” I say. That much is at least the truth. But this Earth female had better get used to the idea of public ruttings. And fast.
After all, I’m about to turn her over to the magistrates for sentencing.
And it’s all but certain that she will be sentenced to reproductive servitude, collared and nude, available to any Phurusian male who desires a turn with her.
Chapter 3
Brooke
I know this isn’t a dream. Ev
erything’s too real. It’s absolutely insane, but it’s real.
We had to park the spaceship (do you ‘park’ a spaceship?) and then walk the long, clean streets. I hobble along in my high heels, wishing not for the first time that I’d chosen more sensible footwear. The city is incredible, like a perfect utopia where everything is clean and new, people either walk orderly on the sidewalks or travel on roads in large groups of connected identical white pods that hover a foot off the ground. The ground even is fancy, sparkling marble or some mineral.
It’s the polar opposite of Los Angeles.
Especially the sun. There is no sun. Or sky. It’s like the illusion on Pirates of the Caribbean at Disneyland or Caesar’s Palace in Las Vegas. A blue-green image swirls with thin, wispy clouds with uniformly dull light. It looks real, but it’s not right. If you look at it, you realize it’s fake, like we’re in an indoor habitat simulator.
Anax pulls me along until we get to a building he calls the Hall of Justice. It’s a stark white, gleaming building. It seems like everything’s made out of polished marble, sparkling and almost blindingly white. There are lots of these Phoenicians or Phurusians or whatever the hell they’re called roaming about. They’re white, too, almost translucent. I once saw a nature documentary about cave-dwelling creatures, and the fish and lizards had all lost their pigments and eyeballs from generations of living in total darkness. The Phurusians still have eyeballs, but their skin is the same eerie translucent no-color. You can see the spongy mass of lungs under the ribs, and the outline of their teeth behind their cheeks gives them a grotesque, skeletal appearance. Their arms and legs are long and skinny, but their heads are huge. Anax says that the Phurusians are an advanced intellectual race, and I’m inclined to believe him—they sure look like they have big old brains inside their heads.
They wear almost identical clothing, metallic sheath tunics that Anax says help regulate their body temperature. It’s hard to tell the males from the females, as they’re both bald. But there are a few characteristics of sexual dimorphism you can see if you pay attention. The females are smaller and also have different ears, narrow funnel-like things sticking out of their heads, constantly pivoting around like little satellite dishes trying to pick up a signal. Males’ ears are bigger, and the shape is more round, the dish much shallower. They’re creepy looking, no ridges or wrinkles like human ears, just a smooth cone of flesh always wiggling around.
