Alien Rogue's Captive

by Viki Storm

  “You do not understand my analogy?” I ask.

  “I do,” she says. “But if there was a dog who spoke English and could hold a scalpel, I’d be amazed. I mean, that’s really impressive coming from a dog. Probably a dog like that could cure the disease. Anyway, whatever, I have twelve hours, so let’s get that barrel of purple stuff and try. We don’t really have any other options.”

  “No, we don’t,” I agree. “But it’s not going to be so easy to get the aranthius.”

  “Why not?” she asks.

  “Because it’s been outlawed on all planets for the last twelve years. It’s essentially obsolete.”

  Chapter 13

  Brooke

  Great. My only hope is a talking dog that needs a barrel of illegal purple stuff. At least, that’s what Anax is making it sound like.

  “What is purple aranthius, anyway?” I ask. “You said it was fabric dye?” We’re flying to some planet that Anax says is close by, but his definition of ‘close’ isn’t quite the same as mine.

  “Yes,” he says. “Used in manufacturing. But it was found to be extremely toxic. It caused the cellular replication disorders you call cancer. It poisoned any body of water within five kilometers of the factory. If you wore a tunic dyed with it, it was safe enough, but it was sometimes used as a food colorant, and ingesting it caused ulcers and small-bowel torsion.”

  “I can see why they outlawed it,” I say. “So why does Hollyhock13 want it?”

  “Because she’s an obvious mental defective. If she really is the Hollyhock13, then it is likely that whatever mutation caused her genius also caused emotional and cognitive insufficiencies.”

  “Could it be that Jirdies aren’t as primitive and backwards as you seem to think?” I ask. I’m obviously probing him to compliment the human race, as well. I know it’s cheap and needy, but I can’t help it. He’s always going on and on about being mates or whatever, and surely he’s got to realize the irony of his mate being what he considers to be an inferior species.

  “No,” he says. “Jirdies are not capable of programming a computer coin-flipping simulator.”

  “Well,” I argue, “I’m not capable of programming a coin-flipping simulator, either, but there’s plenty of humans who are capable of that and much, much more.” Anax just grunts. I’m not sure if that’s a grunt of agreement or scoffing. “My language implant doesn’t cover grunting,” I tell him. “So you’ll have to be more specific.”

  He snorts.

  I roll my eyes. Let him figure out that bit of nonverbal communication.

  “I have an idea,” he says, “to get the aranthius.”

  “Good,” I say, “because I don’t even know where to get a burrito in this galaxy, let alone obsolete, toxic dye.”

  “But there’s a problem,” he says.

  “Of course,” I say. “This wouldn’t be fun otherwise.”

  “Do all humans make a habit of saying the opposite of what they actually mean?”

  “Many,” I say. “It’s called sarcasm. I had an English teacher who said that sarcasm was the refuge of the weak mind.”

  Anax grunts again, but this time it’s obvious that it’s laughter. “It’s a coping mechanism,” he says, “to shelter your feelings from vulnerability. I’d imagine nothing makes you more vulnerable than an explosive device locked around your neck, set to explode in a few hours.”

  “I’m surprised,” I say, “that a Kenorian actually knows what a feeling is. You’re always talking about being rational and logical.”

  “Feelings are an undeniable part of life,” he says. “Sometimes they drive rational beings to acts of irrationality. They’re not to be ignored, just mastered.”

  “Oh, yeah?” I say. “Like when your feelings caused you to kidnap me and smuggle me off of Phuru—oh, yeah, and knock out and maybe kill those air traffic controllers? And caused you to trade in illegal black-market Federation goods? And are currently causing you to hunt down a barrel of some illegal poison dye? That’s you having mastery over your feelings?”

  “Yes,” he says simply.

  “Yes? Are you being sarcastic now?”

  “No,” he says. “All my actions are driven by the need to keep my mate safe. If my mate is not safe, I cannot reproduce. And the ability for a living organism to reproduce is the most basic need that must be ensured at all costs.”

  “And here I was thinking you were going to say something romantic,” I say. But in truth, I’m flattered. More than flattered actually. Though his language is clinical, I’m imagining this reproductive act, the rock-hard phallus pumping in and out of me, how it would feel to have his huge muscular body covering me, his hips between my thighs, spreading them open as he thrusts over and over again until he fills me with seemingly endless spurts of his thick seed.

  “See how vital reproduction is? Your brain is wired to get excited at the mere prospect of it,” he says, as if he can read every dirty detail inside my head right now.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” I deny hotly.

  “I can’t read thoughts like some Phurusians can, but I do have heightened senses. I can detect the slight increase in your body temperature as your blood vessels dilate. I can smell the sweet and slightly musky fluids between your legs as they lubricate your opening. And I can see your nipples are nice and hard, probably wanting to be rolled between my fingertips.”

  I look down at the front of my shirt, and God damn him, my nipples are hard.

  “I do not want you to roll them between your fingertips,” I say.

  “Then what?” he asks. “Swirl my tongue around them? Tickle the tips lightly? Or maybe you want it a little rough instead? Maybe you want me to pinch them hard until you squeal and beg me to stop?”

  “I want a barrel of the purple stuff for Hollyhock13. That’s what I want.”

  “You and me both,” he says. But he’s still eying me with a look of pure hunger. “You’re right. First the aranthius. Then the nipples. We can try it all, and you can decide what you like the best.”

  At first I thought he was bluffing, but I’m pretty sure he can sense all the wetness between my legs. It’s so slippery down there, the slightest movement and I can feel my panties slipping and sliding around.

  “So what’s your plan to get the aranthius?” I ask, trying to change the subject to something other than my nipples.

  “The Phurusians sent me to a factory half a year ago to arrest a textile manufacturer.”

  “For future crimes?” I ask.

  “Yes,” he says. “When I got there, there was corroborating evidence. The manufacturer had been contracted by Phuru to supply them with ceremonial regalia. The Phurusian holy day of Ges was coming up, and the celebration is a big deal. They had exacting specifications and came to the manufacturer because of their sterling reputation. But the forecaster decreed with over ninety-nine-percent probability that the manufacturer was using purple aranthius.”

  “Why didn’t the Phurusians run this simulation first, before contracting with them? They’re supposed to be smart, but I thought of that right away.”

  “They are smart, and they did think of that. But their data was limited at the time, and they needed to order the regalia well in advance of the ceremony. After their meetings and initial dealings with the manufacturer and the workers, then they had sufficient data to run an effective simulation.”

  “You came here to arrest them for fraud?”

  “Yes,” he says. “They had barrels of aranthius, as well as other synthetic materials masquerading as genuine.”

  “Okay, so you arrested the managers or whoever, they’re probably wearing collars on Phuru, paying their debt to society by working in some sweatshop sewing Phurusian flags or something. Is that about right?”

  “Their skills would be wasted in a sweatshop sewing trinkets. They are serving as tailors to the Phurusian high court.”

  “Why do you think that they will have aranthius if they already got caught for it? Shouldn’t
they have disposed of everything and played it safe?”

  “No,” he says. “Because new managers took over, and they still need to turn a profit. They won’t dare try to swindle Phuru again, but Phuru doesn’t care if they swindle other customers.”

  “How honorable.”

  “In your—what do you call the divisions on Earth?”

  “Countries?” I hazard. “Nations?”

  “Yes, can one nation prosecute the citizen of another nation for a crime against some third nation?”

  “No,” I say, but then my legal mind instantly starts to think of exceptions—war crimes, for example. “I get it. So are we going to break into their warehouse when the sun goes down? Or are they greedy enough that we can buy a barrel for a price? Or blackmail them?”

  “Neither,” he says. “But we will have to hurry—and not just because we only have twelve hours to get back to Hollyhock. I should be able to get the barrel easily. But there are several Phurusians on-planet, as part of the restitution deal they have to manufacture other products for Phuru at cost.”

  “We’re going onto a planet that’s crawling with Phurusians?” I ask. “Can I wait in the ship?”

  “The answer to both questions is yes,” he says.

  - - -

  The cargo box looked so much bigger from the outside. Inside, in the dark, with my knees pulled up to my chest, I’m close to panic. I keep reminding myself that I don’t want to leave the ship. I’m safe in here. A red-collared human would attract a lot of attention. Every Phurusian has probably gotten my picture on their comm-screen, along with the promise of a large bounty. Anax says he’ll be back within an hour. I try to soothe myself, comparing the cargo box to the one time I had to get an MRI. Except that time I got an MRI, I freaked the fuck out, had to press the panic button, and had to reschedule so my doctor could dope me up with enough Valium to knock out a horse.

  But still, hiding in here is better than going to the surface and risking some Phurusian seeing me.

  Anax has given me an earpiece so I can hear everything that’s going on outside, plus he’s wearing one, too, so I can talk to him if I need to.

  And I want to. I can hear him talking over his ship’s comm, getting permission to land from the planet’s flight officers. It’s comforting, but not as comforting as if he were speaking directly to me, his voice my anchor in this small black box.

  “Scanning initialized,” I hear, but it’s not Anax’s voice.

  “We might have trouble,” he whispers to me. These are not the comforting words I was hoping for. “Try to stay as still as possible. If their scanners are—”

  “Unauthorized lifeform not declared on customs affidavit. Ship diverted. Please report to dock number four.”

  “Shit,” he says.

  “Are we screwed?” I ask. I can hear my pulse thudding and the blood squirting through my eardrums.

  “Maybe,” he says.

  I can do nothing but wait and try to listen to what’s going on.

  Then Anax cuts our comm-link and my earpiece goes dead.

  It seems like hours, but I know it can only be minutes. I hear muffled sounds as footsteps thud down the stairs into the cargo bay. “I am here to seize evidence,” Anax says. “You do not want to interfere with the Phurusian Hall of Justice.”

  Yeah, no fooling, I think.

  “You are transporting an undeclared lifeform,” someone responds. Well, shit. They don’t sound Phurusian, but it’s hard to know anything from inside the box. The dude could be a talking robot for all I can tell.

  Then the lid on the cargo box flies open, and three strange-looking aliens are peering down at me. They aren’t Phurusian, so at least there’s that. And if their race is crooked enough to cut corners and sell counterfeit goods, they’re probably crooked enough to take a bribe. But somehow Anax doesn’t seem like the bribing type. Anax seems like his motto would be: why bribe what you can bonk on the head?

  The aliens remind me of E.T., sort of, if E.T. was blue and his neck was twice as long and his eyes were tiny and there were four of them. These aliens are small like E.T., with the same squat haunches and stubby legs. Six arms reach into the crate and pull me out. They’re surprisingly strong for being so small.

  “Watch it, buddy boy,” I say when one of them digs his fingers into my forearm too tightly.

  “What is this?” one of the E.T.s asks. “A human? Where did you get a human?”

  “She’s not mine,” Anax says. The E.T.s can’t notice it, but the strain in his voice is obvious to me as he utters the words. I don’t know whether to be flattered or concerned at the raw possessiveness that Anax feels towards me. I mean, I owe my life to him (assuming I still have my life twelve hours from now), and that was always the old sitcom plot—that if someone saves your life, you have to be their butler or whatever.

  And despite everything—or probably because of everything—he turns me the fuck on. Sweet motherless Christ, I can’t help it; I want to let him take me to bed.

  But mates? Fated soulmates or something like that? Arlo jzumak? I don’t think I could date a guy who was a different political party than me, let alone a guy who’s, you know, a different species who lives in a different galaxy.

  “Then what are you doing with her?” one of the E.T.s asks.

  “I’m delivering her,” Anax says. “When one of the Phurusian envoys heard that I was going to be here collecting evidence, he privately arranged for a little… comfort to be brought to him.” Anax gestures to me.

  “This sounds illegal,” one of the other E.T.s says.

  “It’s legal-adjacent,” Anax says. “At best. And I know that this envoy would be eager to keep everything a secret. He’d be very grateful to his friends who kept this quiet. Very, very grateful.” Anax lets this sink in, and I have to consciously repress my smile. Did I just think that he wasn’t the sort who would bribe?

  “How eager?” one of the E.T.s asks.

  “How grateful?” the other asks.

  “Very,” Anax says. “Let me talk to him. When I return, I’ll be sure to have a token of his appreciation for the three of you.”

  “Leave the human as collateral,” E.T. says. “After we’re sufficiently appreciated, then you can take her.”

  “Fine,” Anax says. He turns to leave.

  “No,” I shriek. I can’t help it. “Don’t leave me alone.”

  “You’re not alone,” one of the E.T.s says. “We won’t let anything happen to you.” He’s smiling, but Anax doesn’t seem concerned. What the actual holy hell? He’s going to leave me on the ship with three unscrupulous aliens?

  Anax starts up the stairs, leaving me utterly alone and defenseless.

  - - -

  Fifteen minutes later, one of the E.T.s takes his pants off.

  I sit in stunned horror and watch as he peels off the small, tight-fitting unitard he’s wearing.

  “Yeah, we’ll probably be here a while,” another says. “Might as well.”

  He tosses his clothing to the floor, and that’s when I see it. Big and bulging.

  A head? Coming from his hip?

  “What the hell is that?” I say, pointing at the protuberance.

  “My bud,” he answers.

  “Bud?” I ask. His buddy, his friend? Like how an immature man named Chris might call his penis ‘Little Chris’?

  “Yeah, it’s almost ready for cleavage.”

  Is he into titty-fucking? Goddamned Anax. Why in the hell did he leave me here? He’s been so protective, making sure that I’m safe even when it comes with a great personal cost to him. And now he just walks away without a second thought?

  “I hope it detaches soon, I feel another one budding on the other side. It itches like a bastard.”

  And that’s when I get it. Anax left me perfectly safe.

  Like some bacteria, the E.T.s spawn asexually, by budding. A little nub pokes out and grows until it breaks away, cleaves, from the parent, resulting in two genetically identical crea
tures.

  “It’s from eating too much,” the other E.T. says. “You eat enough, you can spawn a new bud every four days.”

  Anax left me here because he knew that the E.T.s were not a threat. I can see now that they don’t have phalluses—and why would they, if they can reproduce every four days when a little nubbin breaks off of their hip?

  Anax concocted the story about the envoy to protect me. He didn’t want to leave me on the ship alone, but he didn’t want to take me on-planet where it would be too risky.

  So he found me three eunuch bodyguards.

  Sooner than later, he has a barrel on a lifting mechanism that reminds me of a hovering skateboard. He pushes it along, and the board glides about nine inches from the ground.

  “The Phurusians are really hung up on that aranthius, aren’t they?” one of the E.T.s asks.

  “It was an insult of the highest order,” Anax says.

  “Why do they need it? The old managers were arrested, weren’t they?”

  “I don’t question,” Anax says. “My job is to get things.”

  “A delivery drone,” an E.T. says derisively.

  “Call it what you will,” Anax says. “Did you forget that I’m about to deliver something to you?”

  The reminder of their bribe excites the E.T.s. I more than halfway expect Anax to give them a whack on the head at the last second, but he pays them with a handful of credits each. I’m not sure if what he just gave them is considered a lot or not, but I hope that the E.T.s appreciate it.

  The E.T. with the budding spawn in his hip puts his unitard back on and thanks Anax again before leaving, and Anax starts flipping switches and setting coordinates back to Hollyhock’s abode.

  It seems like we get there a lot faster this time, and I realize that there’s a name for that, the flexible perception of time and how going somewhere always seems to take longer than returning.

  Hollyhock’s waiting for us, and it might be my imagination, but she looks excited. I suppose that talent wants to be used.

  She doesn’t even check the aranthius, as if she’s not used to doing shady dealings with underworld characters. Trusting even when she should know that there’s no honor among thieves.