by Viki Storm
“No,” she says. “Assuming you get to retire.”
“Retire?” I ask. “Are you referring to the dishonorable and lazy tradition that humans have of quitting work a full twenty years before their deaths?”
“Yes,” she says. “What do the warriors do when they’re too old to bash skulls? I imagine you get a piece of land and settle down with a nice breeding slave you purchased at auction. In that scenario, how long is a typical lifespan?”
“In that scenario, there is no typical lifespan because that scenario does not exist. We stopped receiving compatible human females after the Sickness in our own females was cured. Much to the relief of our entire planet.”
“Yeah, I bet all the Zalaryn males are relieved not to have a helpless female forced to cook and clean for them, forced to bear their children. That sounds horrible.”
“You know not of which you speak,” I say. How to explain it? I don’t think I can, not to a human female like her, anyway. “We had no choice but to take human females from Earth. There were never enough, and most males were unable to afford a mate. A large sector of our population was denied having a mate and breeding. That is literally the only biological imperative for all lifeforms. Procreate. And most of our males were excluded from that. All of our females were excluded from that, as the Sickness rendered them sterile. It was not a bacchanal of endless pleasure and nonstop mating. It was a dark time in our history.”
She says nothing, either because I have offered her a new perspective on the situation or because she’s disgusted by my excuses. I don’t know why, but I don’t want her to think ill of me. I try to tell myself it’s because I don’t want her to condemn the Zalaryn race as slavers and fleshdealers. But it’s more than that. It’s not just a matter of Zalaryn pride. I want her to respect me—and she can’t do that if she thinks that Zalaryn males purchased human females for gratuitous recreational pleasure.
“So, what, a hundred years? A hundred and twenty?” she finally says. I remember what we were talking about before. “Humans can make it to one-fifteen or one-twenty if they can get regular medical scans.”
“Same with Zalaryns,” I say. “Many stubborn old warriors refuse to get scanned, but the scans will catch cell mutations and organ failures while they can still be repaired. Still, we’d say you lived a full life if you make it to one-twenty. Some of the Zalaryns with more ascetic lifestyles can make it to one-fifty. Still, no one’s going to weep that you went too soon if you keel over at a hundred.”
“Interesting,” she says. “And how old are you right now?”
“I have seen thirty-seven years,” I say. “But a year on Zalaryx is not the same as a year on… what planet do you dock on mostly?”
“None of them,” she scoffs. “All of them. I sleep in the ship almost every night. We keep standard Earth time on board, out of tradition more than anything I suppose.”
“And you?” I ask. “How old are you?”
“You’re not supposed to ask women how old they are,” she says.
“Why?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” she says honestly. “It’s rude, I guess.”
“That’s foolish,” I respond. “Everyone’s the age that they are. Why would it be a secret?”
“Beats me,” she says. “But I’m only twenty-eight, so I’ll probably feel different when I’m older.”
“It probably has to do with the inability to reproduce,” I offer.
“You’re blunt,” she says.
“I know,” I say, “because that’s how the majority of the Zalaryn race felt for generations because of the Sickness.”
“You already mentioned that,” she says. “Anyway, like I was saying, let’s just go on board the damned ship. I have a plan.”
This little human, she’s so tiny, but she doesn’t seem to know it. She has all the ferocity of a Zalaryn warrior fighting for the honor of the home planet.
“I hope your plan isn’t selling me to the Rulmek,” I say. I’m only half-joking.
“In case you forgot, I hate those bastards and I wanted to blow them up. In fact, I still want to blow them up.”
“True,” I concede, “but who knows what your plans are now. That’s the problem with rebels—no allegiances. Two days ago, you wanted to fight against the Rulmek. Now you might see an opportunity to sell the Rulmek a Zalaryn captive. They could sell me to the fighting pits or ransom me back to Zalaryx.”
“Ransom? Really? You’re that important?” she smirks.
“Perhaps,” I say. I’m a little hurt that she thinks I’m not important enough to be ransomed—but she’s right, so I can’t be too mad at her. Vano might try to get me back, but as a rule Zalaryns don’t negotiate with fell races that deal in flesh and use tactics of terror. “Alright. Let’s go on board. Maybe I don’t want to live forever after all.”
“Really?” she says. Her eyes instantly light up with excitement. This female is crazy, I think. Absolutely insane.
“Sure,” I say. “I don’t have any other ideas. But you have to prove to me that you don’t have the chip.”
“I already told you, I don’t have it. I didn’t even know it was in that storage compartment.”
“If you were me, you wouldn’t trust you, either,” I say. “Would you?”
She thinks about it and actually answers, “Fuck no.”
“So we’re in agreement that you’re a professional thief with… flexible alliances. There’s no way I’m getting on a Rulmek warship with you unless I can trust you.”
“How do you expect me to prove that I don’t have the chip?” she asks.
A slow smile spreads on my face. This is going to make this long and fruitless journey worth it.
“Let me search you,” I say.
LIA
I could stab him. That’s one option. He took my blaster when we boarded and stored it somewhere in the back of the ship, but I’ve still got my knives.
“You want to search me for the chip?” I ask incredulously. “Because you were stupid enough to lose it?”
“I want to search you for the chip,” he says patiently, “because you’re the only other person that’s been on this ship.”
“Give me a break,” I say. “I already told you that I’m from Lekyo Prime and I don’t want the Rulmek to raid my home planet. I don’t live there anymore, but I still have friends, people I care about.” I bite off my words because tears threaten to spill down my face. When was the last time I cried? I can’t remember. Only in my dreams do I ever let the dam burst. Because in my waking hours, I’m afraid that if I let one tear slip out of my eye, then I won’t be able to stop.
“Trust,” he says again. “We need to trust each other.”
“And you’ll only be able to trust me if you can put your huge red hands all over my body?” I say. My remark is meant to be flippant and sarcastic, but even as I speak the words, I feel a pulse of… something between my legs. I’m thinking about those huge hands roaming all over my body, fingers probing as he tries to find evidence of my betrayal.
“I probably won’t even trust you then,” he admits. “But I’ll be satisfied that you don’t have the chip.”
“I don’t have the chip,” I say again. I really don’t. I wasn’t lying when I promised to help him save Lekyo Prime.
“And I’d like to believe you, but you’re going to have to prove it.”
He stands up and steps towards me. As he approaches, I feel like I’m glued to my seat. My harness is not buckled, but it might as well be for all I’m able to move.
My mind circles back to my knives. I’m not defenseless. I don’t have to give in to his absurd demand.
Except… that little pulse between my legs is getting stronger. It’s turning into a hot and heavy throbbing sensation. He’s too close, too powerful. There’s that feeling of being drawn again—now more powerful than before.
This is a new feeling for me, what I’m assuming is desire. I’ve shut down that part of me, wanting no physical or
emotional relationship with any man. Pleasures of the flesh and the degenerate desires to fulfill them are responsible for so many tragedies in this universe. I don’t want any part of that.
Except… that throbbing is getting stronger, too.
That’s when I decide that I’ll let him do it. It will be a little test of sorts. An experiment, cold and clinical. To see if I’m capable of desire after all.
He takes my hand in his and gently pulls me up out of my seat. My knees tremble, but somehow I manage to stand up straight and look him in the eye the best I can, even though he’s towering over me, taller by at least a foot. His shoulder width is probably twice as long as mine, and I think how easily he’d be able to scoop me up into his arms, carry me away and…
“You rebel,” he says. His voice is a low growl. “Prove to me you didn’t take it.” The mocking tone he had mere moments ago is gone. Now, Bantokk is all business. There is a dangerous lust inside him—I can feel it. A primitive, raw desire that the civilized part of him is barely able to control. He yanks me closer, and my chest presses against his, his hips pressing flat against my body. He dips his head down and his lips scrape against my ear. I don’t even bother to hide the excited shiver that runs down my body. “Are you going to be good for me?” he whispers.
My lips part and I intend to say something, to tell him to fuck off. But all that comes out is a pitiful little sigh. He moves his head around and now his lips brush against mine. I prepare myself for a kiss—the first I’ve had since I was fifteen and snuck around in the palace gardens with a merchant’s son. “Good,” he says, his lips barely moving.
Then his lips are gone in an instant, as if he’s changed his mind about kissing me. Probably that’s for the best.
He spins me around and puts one of those huge hands on the back of my neck. He pushes me down so I’m bent over the instrument panel. “Put your hands flat on the screen,” he commands. I’m so not used to taking orders. I hate being told what to do. When someone tells me to do something, I do the opposite on general contrarian principle. But what do I do? I put my hands flat on the screen.
With one heavy boot he kicks my legs apart, widening my stance so my own boots are spread about a meter apart. I turn around to see what he’s doing, and he snaps his fingers, pointing at the instrument panel. “Keep your eyes forward,” he says. I say nothing but face forward as he demands. I feel his hands on my ankles, his fingers spread wide as he glides his palms upwards towards my knees. When he passes my knees and starts on my thighs, his hands slow to an excruciating pace. He rubs slowly up and up, caressing in small circles, kneading and grabbing as he goes. He’s a centimeter away from my ass and I’m tense with… anticipation? Excitement? Then he swivels his hands around to the front of my thighs and starts rubbing me all over again, up and down, with deliberate precision.
Would he be so methodical on other parts of my body, I wonder? My heart is beating so hard that I can feel it thudding against my ribcage. I struggle to keep my breathing even and slow, though in truth I feel like panting like a dog.
“Nothing here,” he says. My stomach flips and flutters as his hands cup my ass, squeezing and groping. Keeping one hand at the small of my back, he takes his other hand and thrusts it between my legs, trailing one thick finger right along the middle of my slit. He stops for just a fraction of a second to press against the little bulging nub of my clit, then his hand is gone.
A stifled moan resonates in my throat and Bantokk stands up, taking a step forward. He’s pushing against me, his erection resting against my ass as I’m bent over the instrument panel.
“You’re not supposed to enjoy this,” he says. “I mean, I knew that you would, but I thought you’d at least pretend to be defiant.”
“I—” I say, but I have no words. I knew I would enjoy this, too—obviously—that’s why I allowed this farce to begin with.
“It’s okay,” he says. His hands are on my hips, gripping me and holding me tight. “There’s nothing wrong with your desires. You are a ripe female, meant to be mated and bred. It’s only natural to respond like this.”
“You’re not mating me or breeding me,” I say. But something about my voice lacks conviction, even to my own ears.
“Not right now,” he says. “But maybe when our mission is complete. I have a feeling that something inside you is waking up. I can’t smell the scent of any other males on you. Have you ever been mated by a male before?”
I feel my face go hot, but somehow I can’t not answer him. It’s that feeling of being drawn, of dust and rocks being pulled in by gravity.
“I haven’t,” I whisper. It’s true. My virginity was the only thing that saved me from abuse when I was a captive. The greedy Rulmek thought they could get more coin for me if I remained a virgin.
“I knew it,” he says. “Your cunt smells so pure and sweet. I could bury my head between your legs and lap up your essence until your throat was raw from screaming.” He sweeps his hands up my back then across my rib cage until my breasts fill up both of his hands. He circles his palms until my nipples stiffen, but as soon as they do, his hands are gone, fingers threading through my hair, as if the chip was hidden in there.
I feel his fingers dancing down the back of my neck, stopping at the zipper of my suit. He unzips it a few centimeters then stops.
“I should strip you,” he says. “Strip you bare and bend you over my knees. That chip is small. You could have it inside any one of your orifices. The only way to tell for sure would be to slide my fingers inside you. One inside that sweet pussy, the other inside your tight little bottom. Would you like that?”
I’m stunned by his vulgar suggestion. Does he really think I’d hide the chip inside there?
“I don’t have it,” I say.
“You’re not answering my question,” he says, pulling down the zipper another few centimeters. I can feel his breath on the fine hairs on the back of my neck. “So I’ll take that as a yes.”
I imagine being nude and limp over his knees while he probes me with one of his thick fingers. I arch my back a little, pushing myself against his erection.
“Oh yeah, that’s definitely a yes,” he says. Right when I think he’s going to unzip me all the way and strip me as promised, he zips the zipper back up and steps away from me. “But I’m satisfied that you do not have the chip.”
My head is reeling from all these conflicting feelings—most glaringly the feeling between my legs. The throbbing has reached an intolerable level, and there’s nothing I can do about it.
“You’re satisfied I don’t have the chip?” I ask, confused. I stand up and turn to face him. What I see is a little shocking. He looks like a beast, like some feral instinct has overwhelmed him. The fact that he was able to zip up my suit shows he must possess incredible self-restraint. Still, the fact that he’s done is a little confusing. That was an enjoyable search, to be sure, but it was by no means thorough. “I mean, you didn’t even check my boots. There’s twenty places I could have the chip hidden.”
“You want me to keep searching you?” he says. “I’d be careful with that sort of a request, female. If I touch you for even a nanosecond longer, I’m not going to be able to help myself. I will take you right now and sow your womb with my seed. I will not be gentle. I will mate you so vigorously and thoroughly that you will be sore for days. Then I will rest for fifteen minutes and do it all over again. Is that what you want?”
“Um,” I say. “No.” But it sounds like a question. No? Because I’m honestly not sure. That urge between my thighs can’t be ignored—requires satisfaction. But everything else screams that this is a bad idea.
“Then be grateful that I’m satisfied you don’t have the chip. I could sense it, your innocence. Of this at least.”
“So you trust me now?” I ask.
“Not really,” he says. “But I don’t have a choice. Now, tell me about your plan.”
BANTOKK
I steer the stealthcraft in a lazy circle ar
ound the Rulmek ship. My erection, formerly throbbing and painful, is now withering under the stress of piloting my ship so close to the Rulmek’s. This is a chancy operation to be sure, and I feel the sweat beading on my forehead despite the cold cabin temperatures.
“It just beeped,” Lia informs me.
“I heard it,” I say. “I’m sitting thirty centimeters away from you.” I’m running a scan of the Rulmek ship, trying to piece together some sort of workable schematic from data files on the AXB-550 model of ship and this scan. We can’t go barging into their mess hall at dinner time.
“I think it’s done,” she says.
“It’s going to scan for heat next,” I tell her.
“Do the Rulmek even give off a heat signature?” she asks.
“They can, depending on their external environments and physical stressors.”
“I would imagine they’re as cold-blooded as a cockroach,” she says. “Nothing but sacs of cold black ichor inside those thick shells.”
“They’re actually not shells,” I say. “Their skin is keratinized and hardened, but it’s made of dermal cells. Compared to a Kraxxoid exoskeleton that is made of chitinous carbohydrate chains, or a turtle shell that’s made of bone.”
“Spare me the biology lecture,” she says. “I’ve had enough.”
“Are you always this disagreeable?” I ask. “Is every word out of your mouth either filled with hate or derision?” We have been in the stealthcraft a total of thirty-nine hours together, and I can sense her fertility waning. And praise be to the sickly Void for that. What we’re planning now is a serious job, and I wouldn’t be able to do it consumed by my desires to rip off her clothes and mate her.
“Yes,” she says simply.
“Very well then,” I say. “Once all the scans are done, we can figure out a point of entry.”
“Engine room,” she says. “It should be empty. We can proceed from there.”
