by Viki Storm
“I will, Queen, you have my word,” I say.
“You will what?” Lia asks. I turn around and see her clad in her close-fitting black uniform, drying her short hair with a small towel.
“Lia!” Bryn shrieks. Lia rushes to the comm screen and stares silently at her sister’s pixelated face for a long time.
“I thought I would never see you again,” she finally says. Her voice is hardly more than a whisper, and I think there’s no way Bryn could hear, but the queen lets out a choked sob.
“Me too,” Bryn says. She wipes the corner of her eye with the sleeve of her gown. “We have much to discuss, but not now. Just tell me if you are doing well?”
“Well enough,” Lia says. “I escaped. I found a place with the Three-Star Rebels and worked my way to Captain of my own ship. You? What of this Zalaryn invasion?” Lia looks pointedly at me. I shrug my shoulders.
“The Zalaryns are welcomed settlers,” Bryn says, “and King Vano is my bonded mate, ruling at my side.”
Lia says nothing, and I can tell that this does not sit well with her.
“We are going to get the Rulmek,” Lia finally says. “Don’t worry. Those fuckers will not set one scaly toenail onto Lekyo Prime again.”
I speak to Vano briefly again, then end the comm.
“Lia,” I say, “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” she says. She is bristling, probably ready for a fight. It’s a mood I can easily recognize, as it’s common with Zalaryn warriors.
“I didn’t know you were Bryn’s sister. I didn’t know you were a captive.”
“And you’re sorry?” she says sarcastically. “The Zalaryn whose planet took human females for breeding feels sorry for me. Thanks.”
“That sort of pain will never heal,” I say, ignoring her comment about the Zalaryn-human breeding program. She’s baiting me into an argument to deflect the real issue here—which is, of course, her pain. “But you have proven that you are not weak, no longer vulnerable. The same scared girl who was captured back on Lekyo Prime could never sink a blade into two Rulmek harriers. Whatever you suffered, it made you stronger. It made you a warrior.”
“I see it in your face,” she says. “It’s what everyone thinks. ‘Oh, you poor thing, how terrible.’ Like I’m some piece of damaged merchandise. So spare me your bullshit pity. Pity is cheap and worthless.”
“Damaged merchandise?” I say, honestly perplexed. “Oh no, you’re far from it. You can’t make a fine piece of steel without plunging the blade into the fire.”
She opens her mouth to say something, then closes it tightly, lips wrinkled with the strain of biting back her retort.
“Tell Pior to set a new course,” I tell her. It’s obvious she does not want to talk about her captivity anymore. “I think I know a way to draw out the Rulmek. We’ll probably both get killed, but you already admitted that you don’t want to live forever…” She smiles a little, and it’s a smile of true humor, not the bitter, jaded smile she uses to mask her pain.
“Where are we going?” she asks.
“Irji,” I say.
“And I was hoping we’d go somewhere nice,” she says. Irji is a cesspool of degeneracy and vice—anything can be bought and sold, any compulsion indulged, any fantasy brought to life. It’s ruled mostly by a few cartels who grudgingly tolerate each other’s presence, with not infrequent power coups and takeovers.
“So sharpen those knives.”
“Sure,” she says. “And I’ll sharpen one for you, too.”
I’m not sure if she means sharpen one for me to use… or sharpen one to plunge into my neck.
It’s probably better if I don’t ask.
LIA
Ten years ago, I swore a vow that I would never set foot on Irji. And now here I am. I guess that technically I am not the same person that I was back then, but it still feels wrong to come here after all I went through—all I sacrificed—to make sure I never ended up in the fleshmarkets.
After two years in captivity with the Rulmek, two miserable years in a cage, my only meals a crust of bread in the morning and a moldering raw carrot or potato in the evening, the only baths I got consisting of someone hosing down the cages once a month—I overheard two of the guards discussing that the ship was making its way to Irji and would be there in a matter of days. In my two years of captivity, I learned a lot about the seedy parts of the universe, and I knew all about the fleshmarkets of Irji—and I knew I wasn’t going to go there. The only thing that had saved me from the fleshmarkets for the two years was my virginity and the Rulmeks’ greed.
I would have been hauled off to Irji or some other planet and sold at auction to the highest bidder—which would have been between a thousand and two thousand gold, depending on the market and the other girls I was grouped with. But when the Rulmek found out that I was a virgin, their captain was insistent that they hold out for top dollar. He tried for two years to broker a private deal within his network of scumbags.
Then he found a buyer—and I started planning my escape.
I shake my head and step off of my little recon ship, handing my payment card to the landing strip attendant. Bantokk and I piloted it away from The Golden Plague and told my crew to continue on to Crene. We told them nothing of our plot, fearing that the traitor would sell us out to the Rulmek. I’m still having a hard time believing that one of my crew actually contacted the Rulmek. There’s no doubt when we were on the Rulmek ship that one of the scaly bastards said ‘the Zalaryn we were warned about.’ But I’m holding out hope it was someone—anyone—else who warned them.
I take a breath of fresh air, and to my surprise it tastes good after breathing the recirculated air of the small recon ship for so long. I would imagine this planet’s air itself would be foul and corrupt, tainted by the dark souls of the vice-ridden inhabitants.
“Hope the ship’s still there when we come back,” I say. “This landing strip looks like a good place for a ship to go missing.”
“No.” Bantokk brushes off my concern when I voice it. “The owner is a Du’ix. They have a blood-debt to the cartel. They’re not going to have any unauthorized rackets on this planet. That’s why you’ll see a lot of Du’ix working the taverns and brothels. They’re trustworthy—at least in matters of seedy dealings.”
“That doesn’t make me feel any better,” I say.
“Then don’t think about it,” he says. “Think about something happy. That’s what I do.”
“Like what?” I ask after I’m done laughing. It’s very incongruous to hear such a cheery, optimistic piece of advice coming from such a huge and imposing warrior.
“Like what do I think about?” he asks, that playful smile back on his face. “Like I’m thinking about how I’ll be able to treat you to dinner tonight. A real dinner, not something that came out of a canister or polyethylene wrapper.”
“And that makes you happy?” I ask.
“Sure,” he says. “Partially because of the food, but mostly because what is going to come afterward. When we rent a room and settle in for the night.”
“Give me a break,” I say. I manage to keep my voice even, but it’s a hard task when my knees feel so weak and my stomach just flipped. “The only thing that’s going to happen when we get to a room is we’re going to fall asleep with our clothes on, exhausted and happy to have a full stomach and a real bed to sleep in.”
“We will see,” he says. He’s so cocky, I can’t stand it. Like he thinks the second we’re alone in a room together, I’m going to throw myself at him.
Mostly I can’t stand it because I think he’s right.
I spent the entirety of our journey to Irji thinking about our brief encounter in the storage closet. I want to feel his hands all over me again, roaming and exploring as if he wants to savor every inch of my body.
We walk into the city center, and at first I think it’s not so bad. It looks like any other number of large cities I’ve casually strutted into. I’m at home in a place like this. I c
an land my ship, hit the streets and find the people in charge of the underworld—pimps, dealers, harriers, fences, anyone professional. This place is no different, I try to tell myself.
Except it is.
It’s Irji: home to the notorious fleshmarkets.
The constant threat of them haunted my days and nights for two full years. Actually, if I’m being honest, it’s haunted me for a lot longer than that.
But I never made it here. I saved myself. Sort of… Still working on it.
“Where are we going?” Bantokk asks after we’ve woven through the streets for the better part of an hour.
“There,” I say and point to a small storefront. The professionals here, they don’t even bother with a legit business facade. Lots of other places, the gambling dens are hidden in back of a boot repair shop or the brothel is in the upstairs of the tavern. Not here. Here, all the vice is right upfront so your face can be shoved into it.
There are hologram ads on the sidewalks, nude females of all species gyrating and begging for dirty things. You can’t avoid them, they’re broadcast from every establishment, a never-ending barrage of life-size, semi-opaque female figures. And that’s just the brothels.
The dealers waft their chemicals through the air so you can’t help inhaling just a taste of what’s in store. They sell anything from octalmeth that will keep you wired to the gills for three days straight to gammatonin that will keep you knocked out and riding wild dreams for three nights straight.
It’s a cesspool if there ever was one, and you can’t help wading in right on up to the waist.
Ignoring the advertisements that go seemingly straight into my skull, I find the unmarked door and pull it open. It’s loud, and I’m starting to regret my decision to come here.
I might kill someone.
We’re in Reztax’s brothel, a place I had heard about only in hushed, furtive tones. It’s a place everyone’s heard of—and that more people lie about having been. It’s the raunchiest, most elite pleasure house in this quadrant. It’s a status symbol to say you’ve stayed the night at Reztax’s and lived to tell the tale. It’s mostly hype, I’d imagine, as most things of this nature are, but it doesn’t stop Reztax from trying his damnedest to live up to it.
“Where are you going?” a big alien asks us as we walk in. Like Bantokk predicted, he’s a Du’ix. The place is very big and raucous, and I almost don’t hear him. There are tables in the room and private booths lining the walls. The light is low, with only a few dim bulbs dotting the ceiling. This is just the main room, the gathering room, where friends and like-minded perverts can socialize and ingest mind-altering chemicals before retiring to the private quarters upstairs. I look at the bouncer and see that he has the same craggy yellow skin and protruding mandibular tusks of the landing strip owner. I should fear him, but the disgust I feel at being in this establishment overpowers everything.
“Meeting with Reztax,” I say.
“Yeah, right,” he says. “What are you doing in here, really?” He puts his hand on my wrist to stop me as I attempt to walk past him.
“The lady’s telling the truth,” Bantokk says. “And if you value keeping that greasy fist attached to that hairy arm of yours, I suggest you remove it from her immediately.”
“Heh,” the bouncer chortled. “You her pimp? Maybe you’re right, maybe Reztax ordered her special. Maybe to perform in one of the equine shows, or maybe he ordered you for a snuff customer?”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Bantokk says. Before I’m even sure what’s going on, he takes his weapon from his belt and strikes the bouncer so hard I can hear the bones in his arm crack like the branches of a dead tree. The bouncer shrieks and drops to his knees, clutching his broken arm to his chest.
“Where is Reztax?” I ask. He sobs and points through a door in the back. I figured as much.
“For a bruiser, you really have a low pain threshold,” Bantokk says. He raises his leg and plants his heavy boot square in the bouncer’s chest, pushing all the air out of his lungs with a sickly wheeze.
We weave between the rows of tables and obnoxious patrons. They might be there to indulge disgusting fantasies, but the clientele are largely in a good mood, so they don’t pay us any mind. Once we pass through the door into the back room, however, the atmosphere instantly changes.
It’s quiet and brightly lit, and no one is milling about. I can hear the muffled groans and screams associated with fornication, and I feel a steely rage slip over me. How many of the women behind these closed doors were taken from their homes? How many were just girls like me? I’d been sitting at the window mending a button on a pair of my father’s trousers when the ships descended. How many of them screamed and hid inside a closet, praying to the gods of old and new but discovering that the only god that answered prayers that day was the god of pain and destruction?
“I’m going to burn this place to the ground and blow a hole through Reztax’s head so big that the Du’ix will be able to skull-fuck his corpse,” I say.
“That might be arranged,” Bantokk whispers, “but only after we get him to do what we need. After we get the slaves off the Rulmek ship. Then we might be able to do something about this place. Just not the skull-fucking part—you can leave me out of that.”
“Oh, but what does it matter?” I say. We’re walking down the corridors, looking for Reztax’s office or wherever he spends his nights managing this place. “There’s twenty other places like this on Irji alone. Then all the other planets. It’s a fucking pisser. It’s useless.”
“Maybe so, but it’s not useless to any of the females who are here right now,” he says. “Come on, let’s get out of here. I’m definitely going to need to wash after being in this place.”
I open yet another door and am surprised to see Reztax sitting at a large metal table, a vid-comm set up, and talking to some unseen business partner. He looks to the door and sees us but waves a hand, signaling us to wait. I exhale loudly as he wraps up his conversation. It is in a language I don’t recognize, let alone understand, and I’m glad of that. I know he conducts regular, non-degenerate business—I know because I’ve worked with him half a dozen times. He contracts with the Three-Star Rebels to get supplies of antibiotics, comm devices, tobacco and other items that cross our hands. But I don’t think I could stand there and listen to him broker the purchase of women or girls or boys or whatever other species he keeps in his pleasure house. Humans are the most sought-after, being the rarest in the universe. Humans only populate Earth and a few dozen small colony planets. Much more common than humans are the humanoid races (like the Zalaryns, for example) that, while they share many physical traits and DNA with humans, are not considered as rare or pure by the other alien races who fetishize the human female form.
Reztax wraps up his comm and motions for us to join him at the table.
“Now what is it you want, Lia?” he asks. “And why did you come stumbling in all alone? Hershak was supposed to show you inside.”
“He was busy,” Bantokk says.
“He must have been,” Reztax says. “Now tell me why you had to come all the way down to Irji and meet with me face to face. What is so important that you couldn’t have sent a comm like usual? Is it that you finally wanted to see if all the rumors were true, see for yourself if I really was the most handsome male in all of the sector?”
“Not as such,” I say. “We need you to set something up. Something that only a male of your reputation would be able to pull off.”
“You know that flattery will get you everywhere on this planet and others, too,” he says. He’s a charmer, I know that much, but a big part of his charm is that everyone knows just how fake it is. Reztax is an honest bullshitter.
“I need you to contact a Rulmek ship that will be flying through the area. They have a large shipment of slaves, and I need to buy some.”
“Slaves?” he asks, seemingly genuinely interested. “Could you finally be getting out of the penny-ante tobacco smug
gling business and ready to make some real coin?”
“Ask me no questions, I’ll tell you no lies,” I say.
“No, not that,” he says, narrowing his eyes at me. “Not you, not fleshtrading. But I don’t like being lied to, so I will not continue to ask questions if you at least answer one. Honestly.”
“Okay,” I say. I knew he wouldn’t ask too many questions, but Reztax isn’t stupid. He’s not going to stick out his neck without a good reason.
“How much will you pay me, and are the Rulmek going to be pissed off at me when this is all said and done?”
“That’s two questions, but fair enough the both,” I answer. “I’ll pay you a thousand coin right now.” I debate how to answer his next question. “And yes, probably they’ll be pissed. But not too pissed. You can claim ignorance, plus they need your business more than you need theirs. Flesh is cheap, easily replaceable. A steady customer who pays them on time? That’s priceless.”
“Hmm,” he says, seeming to consider. “I don’t need a thousand coin.”
I say nothing. If we came all this way for this to fail, I don’t know what I’m going to do. We can’t take out that Rulmek ship if there are slaves on board—but we can’t let it sail happily on to Lekyo Prime, either.
“But I do want a thousand coin—especially if I get to piss off the Rulmek. Those bastards irritate me. Always stomping around and shouting, no manners. They’re always fighting amongst each other and killing themselves, too—which I don’t mind, of course, but it shows low moral character, no fidelity, no sense of duty.”
“So you’ll do it?” I ask. There’s no way I’m going to comment on that, the proprietor of one of the most infamously filthy brothels impugning the Rulmek for low moral character.
“I suppose,” he says. “You want a meeting? Want me to schedule a time for you to visit and peruse the wares? That’s it?”
“Yes,” I say.
“Who shall I say are the customers? A Three-Star Rebel captain and a… Zalaryn? Is that who you are?” he asks, speaking to Bantokk for the first time. Bantokk had agreed to let me handle the negotiations since I already knew Reztax and the underworld is my racket.
