Alien Rogue's Captive

by Viki Storm

  They’re different than Anax, who calls himself a Kenorian. His dusky purple-grey skin is appealing after being surrounded by the creepy see-through Phurusians. Although those claws are kinda scary. And I didn’t notice it on Earth, but his fang-teeth are actual fangs—not like Dracula, but more like a lion or gorilla. I notice something else, too. I thought he had a smattering of freckles around the bridge of his nose, but they’re actually tiny pinprick holes. I can only assume that he uses them for sensory inputs, the way a snake’s head is ringed with sensory pits that help it detect movement, smells… and prey.

  This Anax, he’s built like a hunter.

  And I’m his prey.

  Even though he’s a walking, talking, real-life weapon, he carries something at his belt, too; it looks like a musket, with a long barrel and a thick handle and trigger. Something tells me it shoots something a lot worse than bullets.

  Then there are the slaves. Anax refers to them as convicts, but it’s obvious that these poor souls are slaves. There are males and females, mostly Phurusian, but there are other alien races, too. I don’t recognize any of them, obviously, but I did see one human male covered in soot or coal dust, though I can’t imagine that this planet runs on anything as primitive as coal. All the slaves are wearing bright red collars. The males are wearing simple clothing, depending on their anatomical needs. The human was wearing pants, but there was some blobby creature who only wore a vest secured around his midsection.

  The females I’ve seen have all been nude, save for thin sandals strapped to their feet.

  Apparently the Phurusians think that’s the best way for females of all species to pay their debt to society: by roaming around naked, waiting for some law-abiding Phurusian male to bend them over and start thrusting. For an ‘intellectually advanced’ race, the Phurusians are extremely animalistic in their coupling habits. Stray dogs have more modesty.

  A few of the Phurusian females actually seem to enjoy it, screaming out unmistakable sounds of pleasure between the squishy noises made by their coupling genitalia.

  Like I said, just like stray dogs.

  You’d think an intellectually advanced race would reproduce in laboratories, with geneticists and eugenicists governing the selection and pairing of DNA. That’s how it always goes in the sci-fi books; they assign mates, and babies are all conceived in test tubes, incubated while they hover in gel-filled pods, birthed at the calculated moment when the pod is drained. But no. These Phurusians fuck in the streets just like any other savage race.

  “This way,” Anax says. He keys a button sequence on a panel next to the door, and it slides open. Everything about this planet is foreign, but I know a courtroom when I see it. I should know—I’ve worked in them my entire adult life (well, all four years of it since graduating college).

  There is a large dais at the front of the room, the only thing not gleaming white. It’s gleaming red instead but made out of that same polished marble-type material as everything else. There are three towering statues with Phurusian visages, probably their supreme leaders or something.

  Five Phurusians sit behind the dais, robed in the metallic material, but instead of simple sheath tunics, they are hooded so severely that I cannot see their faces.

  “Enter,” the one in the middle says. He’s probably the Grand Elder or Supreme Hierarch or Ultimate King Shit of Turd Mountain.

  We go deeper inside the courtroom. There are several Phurusians sitting in the stands. I can’t tell if they’re court personnel, other ‘criminals’ awaiting trial or perhaps the family of the ‘victim’ I’m supposed to kill next year. There’s about thirty people total.

  Not people. Aliens.

  “Stand before the tribunal, female,” King Shit of Turd Mountain says. Anax prods me gently and brings me forward to stand before the dais. It’s taller than it looked when we first entered, at least eight feet tall, and I have to crane my neck up to see the strange aliens who will be judging my fate.

  Anax stands behind me. He’s my guard, I know that, responsible for catching me and bringing me to justice. These Phurusians have about as much muscle as a newborn kitten. They could probably invent weapons and restraint systems with those big brains of theirs, but something tells me they have a distaste for physical altercations. They’ve hired Kenorians to do their dirty work—mercenary thugs is what the Kenorians are.

  “You are a murderer,” the King Shit says.

  “I am not,” I say. Anax pokes me in the back, and I know he’s just trying to help. But I’m not going to stand here and let these bastards perform their little show trial and give me some perverted punishment for a crime I didn’t commit.

  “It is in your heart, even if the act has not been fulfilled by your hands.”

  “I have committed no crime,” I say. “And if I remain on Earth, there is no way I’ll be able to commit said crime. Your taking me here is the only thing that makes it possible. You’re an accessory before the fact.”

  “How amusing,” the King Shit says. “The human speaks in archaic legal terms. Anax, did you teach her that?”

  “No, Grand Elder,” Anax says. Holy shit, he really is the ‘Grand Elder.’

  “No, you didn’t,” the Grand Elder says. “Your specialty is skull bashing.”

  “On my planet,” I say, “I am a scholar of the law. I have tried several cases before our governing legal bodies.” This is a slight embellishment, as I’m only a paralegal, but I was accepted into law school for the spring term.

  “Your planet is less evolved than an anthill,” the Grand Elder spits. “Do not speak, criminal. We have means of knowledge that—like the lowly ant—you couldn’t begin to comprehend. Your species simply lacks the neurons and dendrites, so don’t take it personally. You are a murderer. And you will pay your debt to society.”

  “If I commit a murder,” I say, “it’s your fault for bringing me here.”

  “Like trying to explain nuclear fission to an ant. We know with 100-percent certainty that you will commit this crime unless we intervene. Not 99-percent or not even 99.99-percent certainty. One hundred percent. Please stop wasting my time with pointless arguments.”

  I hold my tongue because at least one thing I can agree with is that my arguments are pointless.

  “We have calculated the loss to society that your murder would cause. Plus a punitive twenty percent, plus the standard rate of 4.5-percent interest accumulated, amortized starting on the date of the crime. To pay your debt, you must serve a sentence of thirty-four months.”

  Thirty-four months? That’s less than three years. I wouldn’t have even graduated law school by then. Maybe there’s hope yet.

  “After that, can I go back home to Earth?” I ask.

  “You will be required to return to Earth,” he says, “where you will no longer be a burden to the Phurusian society.”

  Okay, I think, calm down. My heart is beating like crazy. This is by far the weirdest thing that could ever happen to me. These Phurusians are gruesome, and the things they’ll want me to do are unthinkable… but only three years? I mean, I’ll be twenty-nine when I get back home. I can still go to law school. I’ll still be young enough to get married and have kids…

  Kids. Oh, God, what if they breed me? Anax said that Phurusians could breed with humans. Would I want to stay with my weirdo half-alien kids? Would they rip the newborn out of my arms while I beg and scream to keep it? Or would I beg and scream for them to get it away from me, the monster that came from my womb? What if I date some guy a few years from now and he sees stretch marks on my stomach and asks about my children—what would I tell him? That I gave it up for adoption, of course, and that wouldn’t even really be a lie.

  My mind is spiraling out of control, and I feel my knees get weak, like my bones have been replaced by pipe cleaners. Blackness threatens to engulf my field of vision, and I know that I’m going down. The Grand Poohbah is right: my tiny human brain can’t comprehend what’s going on.

  Anax puts a stron
g hand on my shoulder, and it snaps me back into focus. “Take deep breaths, or else you will faint,” he says. “You’ll probably faint anyway, but try to stand on your own two feet for the sake of your pride and the pride of the whole human race.”

  He’s right. I steady myself, find the will to banish the blackness and the weakness and the despair. Three years. Then I can go back to Earth.

  “The only question left is what sort of work you are capable of. How can you serve Phurusian society?”

  “I am a legal scholar,” I say again. “I have clerked for judges where I researched and analyzed legal statutes and case law. I worked in document archival, restoring and cataloging irreplaceable historical primary sources. I also used to work at McDonalds, so I am knowledgeable on safe food-handling procedures and customer service.” I am literally quoting lines from my resume.

  “Please,” the Big Cheese says. “What job can an ant perform in a human house of law? He can decompose decaying vegetative matter if he’s helpful, or he can infest the kitchen cabinets if he’s a pest. What can a human, oh ye of woefully deficient neurons, do for us in a mental capacity?”

  “I can sweep the floors,” I say, half-joking but not really.

  “We have drones programmed for that,” he says. “No, you have nothing valuable to us up here.” He points to his huge cranium to illustrate the point. “You have no valuable skills or talents to offer Phurusian society—other than being in possession of a womb. Though I would hardly classify that as a skill. Your reproductive tract can provide recreational value for the productive members of society. As an additional benefit, any offspring produced by said unions will be fostered and reared by capable Phurusians in service to society. You’re sentenced to thirty-four months of pleasure and reproductive service. As of this moment, any productive citizen of Phuru in good standing may use your body for pleasure in any way seen fit. You are to comply with the demands for satisfaction, letting any orifice be penetrated and sown with seed. Anax, strip your prisoner and lock the collar. Set it for thirty-four months, when it will release you from your bonds.”

  Uh, did he just say strip the prisoner? Now? In front of all these scrawny, big-headed bastards?

  And did he say any orifice might be sown with seed?

  Fuck. No.

  Anax reaches around to the top button of my blouse. I slap away his hand. “Hands off, buddy boy,” I say. He ignores me and starts for that top button again. “No,” I shout. This time, I spin around and kick him in the shins as hard as I can, but he’s ready for it and pivots at the last second, and instead of landing a blow on the leg bone, I get the meaty part of his calf. I see his weapon at his belt, and even though I don’t know how to use it, I snatch it and point it at the Grand Council of Assholes.

  “Anax,” the other Kenorian watching from the audience pews says, voice dripping with disgust. “You’re a disgrace. Letting a human disarm you? You either need to kill her or kill yourself to preserve your honor.”

  “Silence, Herko,” Anax growls at his countryman. “There is no threat from this female. It is a dishonor to demand retribution from so wretched a creature.”

  “Anax, you are within your rights to avenge yourself upon the human for taking up arms against you,” the Grand Mother Fucker says. “Though I agree with you and feel she would better serve society by carrying out her sentence. Strip the captive and engage her collar. And be quick about it, we have many more cases to adjudicate this morning.”

  My arms shake as I turn and point the weapon at Anax. His eyes are not what I expect. I expect fury, but instead it’s worse. Much worse.

  It’s pity.

  He takes my wrists gently and lowers the weapon. I let him take it from my hands. I didn’t even know how to fire it.

  “You were pointing it the wrong way,” he says, but his voice is kind and soft enough so that no one else can hear.

  “For real?” I ask. How embarrassing.

  “Yes,” he says. “I’m sorry, but you must face your sentence. There is no choice for either one of us.”

  “I guess you’re right,” I say. “It’s only three years, right?”

  “It is,” he says. His hand slips into the collar of my blouse and he flicks open the top button. He holds my gaze, and that pity that I spurned is still there, but I don’t feel as resentful of it as I did a moment ago. He releases the second button, then stops.

  This is it, I tell myself. Goodbye clothing. I guess this is my first day of being an official nudist. Day one of, what, 1020 days? That’s how many days in 34 months, right? Assuming months are thirty days and not thirty-one or twenty-eight.

  I close my eyes as the Kenorian warrior runs his huge, strong hands over my body. I’m trembling and scared shitless, but somehow his touch is a comfort. As if he’s transmitting that pity through his fingertips, and it feels good to know at least one person thinks of me as more than a hole from which my societal debts must be paid.

  I wait for him to undo the third button, but he does not. His hands stop at my arms, gripping me almost tenderly.

  Then a terrible thought occurs to me. I remember some space facts from middle school science class. A day on Jupiter is only something like ten hours… but a day on Mercury is the equivalent of two-hundred Earth days.

  “How long is a day on this planet?” I ask.

  “Solar day or sidereal day?” he responds.

  “Oh, Jesus, there’s two types of days here?”

  “There are two types of days everywhere. A solar day is how long it takes the sun to rise and set—to appear in the same spot in the sky. A sidereal day is how long the planet takes to rotate upon its axis.”

  “That’s not the same thing?”

  “On some planets it’s quite different. On Earth, yes, it’s nearly the same, with a difference of four minutes.”

  “What about this planet?” I ask. But I know something—something terrible. He’s stalling. He doesn’t want to tell me—because it’s bad. He’s going to tell me that a solar day is like seven-hundred hours or something. It’s why he stopped at the second button on my shirt and why he’s giving me a science lecture about the different types of days.

  “Solar and sidereal days are roughly the same,” he says.

  “Which is how long?”

  “A day is thirty-two hours,” he says. Ouch. Longer, but not by that much. Then it occurs to me that all units of time might be different here. Panic starts to gnaw at my insides.

  “He said thirty-four months. How long is a month?”

  “It’s fourteen days,” Anax says.

  “Holy shit,” I say. Hope leaps up into my throat. I try to do the math, but fourteen times thirty-four is a hard one. I do know that it’s roughly half of what I was expecting if a month is only fourteen days instead of thirty. “That’s not that long. I’ll be back home sooner than I thought.”

  “No, Brooke,” he says. It’s the first time he’s said my name. “I regret to inform you that you are still thinking in Earth time. Time is much different here. Our units are different, and the solar cycle is also different, with the orbital—”

  "Just tell me," I say, "How long is my sentence supposed to be?"

  “I’m afraid that your sentence of thirty-four Phurusian months is actually the equivalent of sixty-three Earth years.”

  Chapter 4

  Anax

  Something inside me breaks. Maybe it’s the hidden despair of losing my home planet ten years ago. Maybe it’s the frustration of having to serve these Phurusian bastards since I have nowhere else to go.

  But something breaks.

  And I’m afraid it’s my heart.

  I look into the human female’s eyes as I deliver the bad news. Her shock is no less than if she’d been given a physical blow.

  They want me to undress her now? Strip her nude and engage the slave’s collar that will be the only thing she will wear for the rest of her life?

  Not going to happen.

  As much as I want to see her
smooth, pale skin underneath her clothes. Remove one article of clothing at a time until her heavy breasts tumble forth and hang freely, until her plump bottom is exposed and the downy thatch of hair between her legs is close enough to touch…

  Then I feel the disgust at myself. How could I even think about taking advantage of such a wretched creature? It’s reprehensible, the complete opposite of how we treated our females on Kenor. Except there are no more females on Kenor. There is no Kenor. The entire planet was destroyed, along with every male, female and juvenile on the planet at the time. A handful of warriors were off-planet when it was destroyed. Others call us ‘lucky’ that we weren’t there. They must not know what ‘lucky’ means.

  “Anax,” the Grand Elder prods. “Prepare the convict and get her out of my sight. Take her to the Senator’s chambers. He’s requested a servant for the evening. You’re free to use her, as well,” he says magnanimously. “But only in the manner befitting a Kenorian. Reserve her womb for the superior Phurusian seed.”

  I look at her again, eyes welling with tears that she is too proud to shed. I’m impressed at her resolve. Usually the convicts—males and females alike—are bawling and bargaining and begging by this point. This female, however, has chosen to fight, then when that proved futile, she accepted her fate with as much dignity as possible.

  She will be a convict for the rest of her foreseeable life.

  “It’s okay,” I tell her. Even though it’s not.

  Her sorrow and hopelessness ferment and turn to rage. Pointed at me.

  “It’s absofuckinglutely not okay,” she shouts, to the general amusement of the spectators. From what I can see on the Grand Elder’s scowling face, he’s not amused, but then again, he’s the Grand Elder, and it’s his job not to be amused. “I’m going to be a fuck-toy for these freaks until I’m ninety years old. What kind of sick bastards want to fuck ninety-year-old ladies anyway?”