by Tristan Vick
Yet, slowly, his eyes found their way back to her and a smile formed on her face. When she noticed him begin to stiffen, her smile spread wider and she reached up with her slender hand and gestured with a finger for him to lay down beside her.
His broad, rounded shoulders sank down as he climbed onto the bed with her. He crawled across the satin sheets toward her like an albino tiger, his black eyes locking with hers. She waited for his muscular form to hover over her and then, reaching up and taking his neck in her hand, she pulled him onto her.
She felt the tightness in his muscles as he resisted her touch, but as his white flesh came into contact with the green flesh of her breasts, she felt the tension drain out of him. She smiled up at him and wrapped her legs around his hips, guiding his pelvis into hers.
“There. That’s better,” she cooed, coupling with him.
Deliberate in her movements, she began to slide up and down on him. Although she could tell he was inexperienced, she didn’t let that slow her down. She was more than used to handling all the work herself. And, if she was being honest, his inexperience excited her. The added fact that she had a certain amount of power over him excited her even more.
Onelle handled all the rest, and although he seemed as though he were only doing it out of obligation, she could easily tell he didn’t regret it, either.
“How does that feel?” she whispered into his ear.
“It feels fine, mistress,” he answered in a dry fashion, void of any emotion or hint of pleasure.
“Just fine?” she asked, feeling slightly offended. She bore down on him, hard, and took him all in, and then squeezed, tightening to a full-on Kegel contraction. Rubbing her fingers through his dark hair, she gripped tight and jerked his head back. At the same time, she kept herself tight and continued to ride him harder. Eventually, a subtle twinge of pleasure appeared on his face. Ashamed by his own weakness, he quickly tried to hide it by looking away.
Onelle smiled, knowing that she had him under her spell.
Roughly forty-five minutes into their session, Onelle fell back onto the sheets of her bed, completely drenched in sweat. Panting, she waved her hand and dismissed him. “I’ve had my fill, sir knight. You’re free to go.”
“Palamedes,” he replied.
She looked over at him with a blank expression. “Excuse me?”
“My name, mistress. Is Palamedes.”
“I see,” she replied, trying to sound interested. “Nice to make your acquaintance, Sir Palamedes. Maybe we can do it again sometime.”
As a Knight, Palamedes did not respond to her invitation but simply withdrew himself from her and slid off the side of the bed. After he finished dressing, he turned to her and asked, “Will you be needing any of my other services?”
“No, not at the moment,” Onelle said in a sleepy voice. Satisfied, she yawned and waved him out. He bowed, acknowledging her unspoken command, turned and left her chambers.
Palamedes, stepped out of Onelle’s chambers and into the corridor and the Mark of H’aaztre flashed on his eyes. As the golden halo faded, a cruel and soulless smile appeared on his lips.
What Onelle didn’t know was that every Nyctan aboard the ship was under his control. They were the most subservient of the serfs, and so, the easiest for H’aaztre to control. The weakest knight, the most submissive servant girl, even the captain of this vessel was an indecisive lummox.
It was a ship of slaves, and once the peace summit was fully underway, the slaves would all be overridden with one single command: kill everyone. Including themselves, once the task was completed.
The official story would be that it was a coolant leak and a faulty warning system that, regrettably, led to a core breach and the unfortunate death of all the delegates. A scandal, to be sure, in these trying times.
But by murdering the world’s peace ambassadors, H’aaztre would sow the seeds of distrust and fear on a galactic scale. Throw in some conspiracy theories for fun, and he’d have every world questioning one another’s motives. The galactic governments would be at each other’s throats demanding justice. And as they destabilized, he’d be ready for phase three of the occupation. Complete and utter subjugation.
27
Grendok watched from out of the nearby view portal as the Shard darted out of the system in a flash of light. He turned away from the viewing windows of the lower deck corridor and slapped the coolant cartridge into his plasma rifle and cocked it. Its high pitched whine signaled him that it was fully powered up and ready to go. “It’s time to take back my bloody ship,” he growled in a low voice.
The hoary bearded satyr stepped out into the main corridor. Red light washed over him as the ship’s alarms rang silently in the background; only the light of the display panels pulsed in emergency hues. Grendok glanced up and down the corridor for any possible threats. Finding it empty, he let himself take a deep breath.
The only reason the Chiron would ever fire on the landing party was if The Voice had boarded the ship and brainwashed most of the crew. But since he didn’t know who was and who wasn’t affected by her hypnotic hold, he had to assume everyone was hostile. Cocking his plasma rifle, the gun warmed with a whine as it heated the plasma bolt inside.
Ironically enough, this wouldn’t be the first time he’d had to fight his way to the bridge to regain a ship. There’d been a mutiny aboard the first ship he ever served aboard, some three hundred and seventy-nine years ago. A medical supply frigate called the Nomios.
The incident all began when the first officer, May His Name be Ever Forgotten, wanted to deny medical aid to a quarantined world stricken with a lethal virus that destroyed the immune system of the planet’s inhabitants. The captain of the Nomios, the now famous Themis Pindar, ordered a landing mission to take down medical supplies and assist with creating a retrovirus that could save millions of lives. The only problem was, this would require at least two officers to voluntarily become infected while they remained on the surface.
Believing a suicide mission to try and save an entire planet’s civilization was not worth sacrificing the lives of his fellow officers, the first officer led a mutiny against Captain Pindar, hoping to safeguard the lives of the crew. As it happened, several officers agreed with the commander’s assessment that the mission was a death sentence, especially considering there was no guarantee a cure could be found in time to save the officers who volunteered for the mission.
Naturally, Grendok had sided with his captain. And with a small crew of loyal officers, they managed to take back the bridge, secure the ship, and arrest the mutineers.
Grendok himself volunteered for the mission, and, indeed, he became infected with the virus, but not before discovering that the aliens of the disease-stricken world of Qu’Mar had advanced cloning technology which he used to give himself a second life. And then another. And another.
Eventually the virus was cured, thanks to the efforts of Themis Pindar, Grendok of Galliforn, and Zendaya Briareos. Along with a team of Qu’Marrion scientists, Grendok and Zendaya were able to reverse engineer the virus and create a retrovirus that saved the satyrs of Qu’Mar. But the cost was great, and both Grendok and Zendaya, afflicted with the virus, died before they could receive the cure.
Luckily, however, Grendok had saved samples of their DNA, taken from the medlab aboard the Nomios, and had already cloned both Zendaya and himself. They lived on Qu’Mar, helping the people for a time, and then the war against the Dagon Empire brought the entire Galliforn alliance into the fray, forcing both of them to enlist in the military.
Always an eccentric, Grendok made numerous copies of himself and allowed his various clones to have lives of their own. But if they chose to continue on with their immortality, they had to stay loyal to one thing and one thing only—the Old Way. The way of the ancestors of Pan. The way of the nymph and the fawn-folk. The way of the noblest of satyrs of his clansmen and the forest-folk.
The Galliforn philosophy of life was simple: Strength in the face of
weakness. Honor over cowardice. Kindness in lieu of selfishness. Practice the old ways over the new. And always honor the Moon Goddess, Selene.
It was Pan himself who’d first set down the law, and it was the satyrs who were the keepers of the Old Way. The way not to be forgotten; the way to be remembered and practiced.
After the war, which relied heavily on the labor of clones, cloning was banned altogether, made illegal all throughout the Commonwealth. This ensured that clones wouldn’t be treated as second class citizens or made into slaves on worlds who might acquire the technology but not be morally advanced enough to take a cloned individual’s natural and legal rights into consideration.
Grendok, however, rebelled against the system that wanted to take away the very thing that had granted him a second chance at life, and so he took his cloning operation underground.
Branded a criminal, a warrant for his arrest was issued. He then began selling designer clones on the black market to those who could afford it, and this led to him getting embroiled with some high-end gangster families who wanted more than just clones. They wanted the means to create their own clone armies so that one might be able to take over the other rival faction and vice versa.
Instead of sidling up with gangsters, however, he went behind their backs and sold the technology to the Seyfferian Republic, who then modified and improved the technology.
This didn’t make him any friends with the factions of the criminal underworld, and they have had it out for him ever since.
See, he liked to think that, although not entirely corrupt, he has always been perfectly willing to break the laws when it suited him and aided in his agenda. As such, Grendok of Galliforn has lived out the past couple of centuries existing in the gray areas of galactic law.
Impressed by how much thinking he was able to do before reaching the first major junction, he quickly flattened himself up against the wall when he heard several voices approaching from up the corridor.
Not wasting a moment, he found a nearby door and ducked inside just in time for the two voices to pass by the other side of the closed door. That was close, he thought, letting out a sigh.
When he turned to inspect what room he’d hidden himself in, he was pleased to discover it was the ship’s dry cleaners.
It only took him a nano-second to find a uniform his size hanging on one of the racks, and although it wouldn’t have the medals or pins denoting his rank of Admiral, or, at least, the rank of one of his copies who was likely somewhere aboard the ship, he might be able to dupe a few low-ranking officers into thinking he was the admiral off duty.
Once he was dressed, making sure to leave his lapel hanging open, as many officers did when off duty, he picked up his plasma rifle and slung it across his back. Then, acting as if he owned the ship, he stepped out into the corridor and confidently made his way to the lift.
Just as he stepped up to the doors the lift opened. There were two stunned-looking officers standing before him.
“Admiral,” they gasped in unison, both saluting him.
He returned their salutes and grumbled, “At ease, officers,” and then stepped onto the lift.
They were halfway to the bridge when he couldn’t help but notice one of them eyeing him suspiciously.
Out of his peripheral vision Grendok glimpsed the man cautiously reaching down for his blaster which was holstered at his waist.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, son,” Grendok growled in a low, threatening tone.
This prompted the second officer to step back while the first grabbed Grendok from behind.
Kicking his hind legs off the wall Grendok slammed the second officer into the opposite side of the lift with such force he was rendered unconscious. Breaking free Grendok circled behind the second officer and pulled his gun from his holster before the officer could and shot him in the back.
The officer collapsed into a heap next to his comrade and Grendok checked the weapon. “Pan must be watching over you, boy, because it was set to stun.”
Both officers incapacitated, he tucked the additional blaster into his waist, feeling it might come in handy later.
“Sweet dreams, gentlemen,” Grendok said, stepping over their unconscious bodies as the elevator’s doors opened. Grendok stepped onto an empty bridge. As he eased out into the open, he drew both weapons and scanned for any potential ambushes. Only the glowing pulse of the red emergency lighting showed any signs of activity.
That’s when the main viewscreen flickered, came to life, and Azra’il Nun stared back at him with her malicious smile. It looked especially eerie as the bottom half was completely mechanical and her grin seemed to exude a kind of agony that comes with injuries that haven’t heeled fully.
“My dear Grendok, did you honestly think I’d just let you all off the hook after what you pulled?”
Grendok shrugged. “Hadn’t given it much thought,” he replied. Then, aiming his rifle at the monitor, he shot it. The plasma bolt pierced the monitor and it popped with a small internal explosion and went dark. Gray smoke started streaming out of the gaping hole.
Sure, it would have been easier to simply cut the feed, but this gesture was more dramatic. The last thing Azra’il Nun would see was the flash of his blaster’s muzzle aimed straight at her head. Message sent and received.
Grendok turned to his ready room suspecting that his younger self was there waiting for him. That’s when the automated countdown to the self-destruct began. It was set to detonate exactly one minute after Aldebaran blew, so that if he did manage to find a way to escape the neutron explosion and subsequent formation of a black hole, he’d still have only one minute to enjoy his short-lived victory.
The ready room doors slid open and he found his younger doppelgänger standing across from him holding a blaster to Almathea’s head. Grendok stepped into the room and raised his hand. “Let her go,” he said. “This is between you and me.”
“The moment I let her go you’re going to blast me and then place one of those infernal memory extractors into the base of my skull to get the kill codes to the auto-self-destruct.”
“That’s the plan, anyway,” Grendok replied to his brainwashed other self, a wry grin forming on his goat mouth.
It was at this time that he noticed that Almathea wasn’t struggling and he leaped out of the way just as she brought up a blaster of her own. The bolt missed him as he crashed to the ground behind the leather sofa off to the edge of the room.
Almathea and the admiral fanned out, moving around either side of the command desk, training their sights on the sofa.
“You’re surrounded and out-gunned, old man. The best thing for you to do is surrender quietly.”
“I somehow doubt that The Voice told you to take me peacefully.”
Almathea’s shrill laugh pierced the silence in the room. “Always one step ahead, as usual, eh, Admiral? But you’re right. When we catch you we’re to skin you alive in front of the entire crew,” she said gleefully.
“Fine,” Grendok said, raising his hands above the sofa in surrender. “I submit.”
He tossed the weapons to the side so they knew he was serious, then added, “I’m coming out now. So, don’t shoot. Or do. It’s up to you how this plays out.”
Slowly, Grendok rose to his feet and faced his attackers, hands raised at his sides in unconditional surrender.
“What are you doing?” the admiral demanded to know. He was unfamiliar with such a tactic. Surrendering now didn’t advance Grendok’s mission and only seemed to preemptively end things. Did the fool want to get skinned alive?
Almathea gave the admiral a confused glance as if to ask what they should do next as this turn of events was completely unorthodox.
The admiral retrained his blaster on the senior version of himself and glared down the barrel of the gun at him, narrowing one eye. “What’s your game here, Grendok? I know you as well as I know myself. You always have an ace up your sleeve. So, what is it?”
“Ah, yes,
and I was counting on you figuring it out, but, as you said, Almathea, I’m always ten steps ahead. Only this isn’t a game of cards we’re playing. It’s a game of chess, and you’ve just been dealt a checkmate.”
“What in Pan’s beard is he talking about?” Almathea asked.
“En passant,” a mysterious voice answered.
They all startled except for the old goat himself and looked around for whoever had spoken. Before they could figure out what was happening, a resounding crack to the back of their skulls sent them to the floor with a thump; Almathea and the admiral collapsed in a heap. At the same time, a flicker of blue and purple light followed by some electrical discharge flashed and a shimmer of light, like a heat mirage on the Thessalonican dessert, slowly melted away to reveal a solid form.
Raven Nightguard, having manifested out of thin air, stood over them and casually holstered her blaster back at her hip.
“I’m glad you got my message,” Grendok said. “I wasn’t sure you had, with everything else going on.”
“There’s only one satyr I’m loyal to,” Raven said, shooting Grendok a subtle grin. “Now, what do you say we get out of here before this entire place is swallowed up by that thing out there.” She nodded at the ring world outside the view portal.
“I should have listened to you the first time,” he said after a moment of reflection. Raven shot him a curious look. He turned to her with a sheepish grin. “When we first discovered this place, it frightened you. You warned me to stay away from Aldebaran, but I was too greedy. I wanted it as a consolation prize and now look where it's got us.”
She sauntered over to him and, standing beside him, looked out the window at the ring world. “The ancients who built that place are long gone. Destroying it will bring death to the destroyer of worlds, and maybe then their souls will finally be able to rest in peace.”
Grendok nodded then shuffled over to the admiral’s desk. “In that case we best not keep them from a happy journey to the afterlife,” he said, placing his palm down on the surface of the touch-display desktop. “Transfer all command authority to Grendok, Beta-Prime, voice authorization, Grendok Baphomet of Galliforn. Execute Broken-Sword protocols, on my command. Execute.”
