Kidnapping His Rebel: A Sci-Fi Alien Romance (Zalaryn Conquerors Book 2)

by Viki Storm

  Could we be on the Guuklar planet? Wouldn’t that be the best revenge—and the best way to regain face with the Guuklar leader?

  “Where am I?” I demand. I know he’s probably not going to tell me, but if there’s one thing I remember about Commander Krwlg, it’s his pride. He would love to gloat right now, secure in his triumph of revenge. What he doesn’t realize is that I was able to escape before, when I was half-starved and nude and had no skill with a blade. Now? Now I am a strong fighter, I am physically fit—and this time I have something to live for.

  It’s as if a switch inside me has been flipped. I don’t care who’s flipped it or why—maybe it’s nothing but a figment of my primitive survival instinct.

  But I’ve decided on one thing: I’m going to get out of here so that I can see Bantokk and Lekyo Prime again.

  Fuck these assholes who took me away from my home. I tried to minimize my pain by telling myself that Lekyo Prime wasn’t my home anymore. Then recently I tried to tell myself that love and a bonded relationship was not meant for me. But that was just the old me. The me who had to do anything to survive.

  Fuck these assholes who would cheat me out of my future with Bantokk, my future with my sister.

  I’m Princess Lia of Lekyo Prime. And nothing is going to stand in my way, least of all this old fool.

  “Wouldn’t you like to know,” the Commander says with a laugh.

  “Not really,” I say. “I just thought you’d like to know, because whatever planet we’re on, that’s the planet where you die.”

  The obnoxious chuckle dies in his throat. Good. Looks like he remembers enough to still fear me.

  “How’s that scar?” he asks. He’s trying to upset me, but little does he know the memory of how I got the scar on my face is one of my favorite memories.

  “Just fine,” I say. “It healed. Yours won’t.”

  “Big words from someone who’s tied up without a weapon,” he says. “I just wanted to take a good look at you before we travel to your new home.”

  “And where is that?” I say. But I already know.

  “The Imperial Mansion,” he says. “The leader of the Guuklar is still recruiting members for his harem. Of course, you’re older now, less valuable. But I’m still getting a good piece of coin for you. He says he likes his females with a little spunk. Makes it more fun to break them.”

  BANTOKK

  I awake to the sound of swords clashing in the air. Swords? Who the hell uses swords? The primitive humans on Lekyo Prime were armed with swords when we first invaded their planet, and other lesser beings sometimes arm themselves with the crude metal blades. But somehow I doubt that Pior incapacitated me just so he could return me to Lekyo Prime.

  I’m in a pod. It’s small, less than half a meter square, maybe two meters tall with a few air-holes drilled into the top. It’s not tall enough for me to stand up straight, nor is it wide enough for me to sit down comfortably. My body aches from being crammed in here for Void knows how long. It’s made of a clear composite polymer, and at least I can see out. There are other pods like this, all lined up in a large, otherwise empty room. Some are empty, some are filled with other sorry bastards like me. There’s a human male, an Enun, a Glari and two Qana that I can make out. But some of the other pods have fogged up from the inside, and I can’t see who’s inside.

  I smash and rage, trying to break the pod, but it is no use. Lia. I’ve got to get to her. I don’t know where she is or what’s happened to her, but I have to find her—and kill the bastards that have her.

  Suddenly the roar of a large group fills the air. The greedy, bloodthirsty cries of a crowd. Whoops and hoots and hollers, some in celebration, some in disappointment.

  And I know where I am.

  A fighting pit.

  There are plenty of fighting pits in the unsavory planets. Irji has a famous one, but it’s by no means the only one. Two males are put into a large arena, usually a large dirt pit dug into the ground at least five or six meters deep. Sometimes they are given weapons, sometimes not. Usually they are given something primitive, like swords or blunted wooden batons—something that doesn’t kill fast, something that requires lots of hand-to-hand combat and bludgeoning. The audiences like a good show, after all. The show’s over when one male is dead.

  The winner? Does he earn his freedom? If by freedom you mean he gets crammed back inside the pod until the next fight, then yes. Sometimes winners are given a meal of meat or other small rewards, but make no mistake—the fighters are slaves, and slaves are never freed. They are made to fight until they lose. And a champion of many fights? When he’s worn down enough, they’ll usually pit him against the biggest bruiser they’ve got and bill the fight as ‘the end of a champion.’ Come watch your favorite fighter finally meet his demise.

  An unthinkable sum of coin changes hands, between the fleshtrade for fighters and the gambling and liquor businesses that complement the fighting. Pleasure houses, too; for some reason, males enjoy the comfort of a female after watching violence. Certain warrior races are prized as fighters for the pits, Zalaryns being one of them. I’ve heard a few rumors in my time about Zalaryns being kidnapped or coerced or tricked into the pits but could never be sure if the rumors were true. One rumor I heard was that a Zalaryn warrior went willingly to the pits when his mate and offspring were threatened. Another rumor—this one happily spread by our training masters—was that a Zalaryn off-planet had a few too many cups of strong freykka at the tavern and lost his wits only to wake up with a hangover in a pod the next morning.

  Well, now I can say at least one rumor will be true. The great Bantokk, valiant fighter at the battle to conquer Lekyo Prime, bonked on the head by a scrawny human male and sold like a fattened bovine.

  “And now for our next battle, the one you’ve all been waiting for…” a voice announces over a comm speaker. “A newcomer to the Irji pits…” So that’s where I am. Figures. Pior would have taken me to the closest place, unloaded me fast before I had a chance to wake up and strangle him. “… our very own Zalaryn warrior versus our fan-favorite Kraxxoid fighter. Taking bets now, windows close in ten minutes.”

  Did he just say Kraxxoid fighter? This gets better and better.

  Fucking Kraxx. Fucking Pior.

  The Kraxx have a weakness in their exoskeletons, but it’s small, and their shells are thick. They are also ruthless and equipped with long proboscis-like stingers that secrete either genetic material or poison, depending on their purpose. I have never met one in battle, as the large contingent of Kraxx in our sector was wiped out a generation ago in the Battle of the Green Ghost Army. High King Xalax orchestrated that war and won it. There are a few straggling Kraxx in the Universe—insectoids like them can never truly be eradicated—but they are scattered in a few disorganized settlements.

  At least I can get out of this pod. If they let me out of this pod, it’s going to be a mistake. For them.

  A door swings open and two Du’ix march in. They are holding weapons of some sort, and when they get closer to my pod I see that they’re particle blasters.

  One of them keys a code into the locking panel of the pod, and the hatch swings open. I note the pattern he presses, remembering it in case it comes in handy later. I expect a breath of fresh air but instead am greeted by a stench more foul and thick than the air inside my own pod.

  “Step out,” one says. He has a row of sharpened teeth that I know to be a popular implant among his race. They pull out their own teeth and have them replaced with platinum alloys honed to a needle-sharp point. I’ve seen it a few times and always wondered what happens if they’re eating and accidentally bite their tongues. “Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” I say. I step out, relishing in the feeling of being able to stretch out my body to its full height. I lift my arms and stretch, assuming correctly that they won’t blast me. Instead, I get the butt-end of the blaster in my stomach. I double over and cough.

  “No movements,” old Mr. Metal-Toot
h says. “No tricks.” The other Du’ix keeps his blaster trained on me but says nothing.

  “Yes,” I say. I straighten up and take in my surroundings. They’ve left the doors open, and there is no one else here except the fighters locked in the pods.

  And that’s when I know what I’m going to do. It’s not a great idea, but it’s the only one I’ve got, and sometimes that’s the best you can ask for.

  I start walking where they lead me but trip intentionally and fall to the floor. I cry out in real pain, as the muscles in my limbs are cramped from the confines of the pod.

  “Get up,” Metal-Tooth says.

  “He’s not going to last against the Kraxx,” the other Du’ix says. “I’m going to go put a hundred on him.”

  I get to my hands and knees slowly, groaning in pain as I do so. When Metal-Tooth lets out an irritated sigh, I know I’ve got them. Quick as a bolt of lightning, I reach out and grab both of them by the ankle and yank them down to the ground. It was easy enough, as they were not expecting it. But the element of surprise is a fleeting thing, and I have to be fast. I leap upon Metal-Tooth and take the blaster from him. I am not sure how to work it, if it needs a charge like an anankah or if it’s equipped with a safety switch or if it needs a battery cartridge. Taking the safer choice, I bash him on the head with it instead. He goes limp, and I think, there’s at least one piece of good luck.

  It doesn’t last long, because the other Du’ix is on me, tackling me back to the ground. Dust swirls up and the particles get into my nose. He’s on top of me, trying to use his weapon, and that’s his mistake. You can’t aim a blaster at someone from a distance of ten centimeters. Which means he does not know how to fight. He’s probably just a lowly cartel bruiser, a blaster plopped into his hands because he’s dumb and violent enough to pull the trigger at anything that gives him trouble.

  I, on the other hand, have been grappling and fighting with my hands since I sprouted the first curly hair in my armpit.

  I wrap my legs around him and twist him off of me. He lands with a whoof and a curse as the air leaves his lungs. I take the momentum in my favor and roll on top of him. I wrench the blaster out of his hands and slide it across the room. I don’t have the space to bash him with it, and I’m not going to make the same mistake he just did. I strike him in the face with my fist and he groans but still struggles. He’s strong, that much is clear, and he has the benefit of not having been stuffed into a cramped pod for hours on end. I get my arm across his neck and lean into it long enough to weaken him, but then in what’s probably a wild burst of adrenaline, he is able to buck me off.

  I get quickly to my feet and pull him up. He’s still disoriented, so he staggers a bit and I’m able to rush him into the pod that I just recently vacated. I close the door and hit the button to engage the lock. I glance over my shoulder and see that Metal-Tooth is still knocked out on the floor. I study the keypad for a moment, trying to remember the pattern that he pressed when he unlocked my pod. It’s a standard eight-key octal number pad.

  And if these guards are as stupid as they are sloppy, I bet the code is the same for all the pods.

  I test out my theory on the nearest pod, containing an Enun who’s been watching the events unfold with morbid fascination. The fighters treated to a bloody little spectacle of their own. Four, three, seven, zero. The green light flashes and the lock disengages. The pod door swings open, and the Enun looks at me, unable to believe it. I tell him the code, but he doesn’t understand. I grab his hand and key the number on the pad. He understands that, and we both get to work freeing the other fighters.

  I come to the last pod and see a Kraxxoid fighter inside, ostensibly the one I’m scheduled to fight. The revulsion I feel toward his race stays my hand for a moment, and I just stare at the keypad. My brain is telling me to let the bastard rot, but my instinct is screaming to let him out. I key the numbers, and the pod opens.

  There is chaos as the newly released fighters scramble around, unsure what to do with their newfound freedom.

  I, however, have no such confusion, and I go straight for the open doors, stopping to pick up one of those particle blasters. The other fighters follow me, as if I’m their leader. That’s a good one. Bantokk the Bold, breaker of pods and freer of slaves.

  There is a long corridor, and from the increasingly loud murmur of the crowd, I can only guess that it leads straight to the pit. I look for a door or another path and I see it, a smaller corridor veering to the right. I take it, having to hunch down and waddle my way through. There is no other security here, but I’m sure that there will be some wherever this path leads. As I go, I examine the particle blaster, figuring out how to work it. Yes, there is a safety switch, but there is no charging time, and it’s already equipped with a full battery pack. I wonder how many blasts the battery pack will allow, but it doesn’t matter. If I need more than ten or so, I’m probably going to be caught anyway. Hopefully if it comes to that, I can save a blast for myself.

  Except I know that I would never do that. As long as there is an ounce of blood moving through my veins, I’m not going to stop. Because Pior didn’t just trap me and sell me off.

  He got Lia, too. And I’m going to find the bastard, and then I’m going to find her.

  The corridor is getting brighter, and I know that this is the real moment of truth. It’s a small feat to take out two dim-witted guards, blasters or no. But now I’ve got to get past whatever security is in the pits, which is probably substantial, considering the rowdy clientele in attendance.

  I look behind me and see that most, if not all, of the fighters are following me. Closest is the Kraxxoid I freed, the other particle blaster in his long black arms. Great, my bosom buddy in battle is a Kraxx with enough firepower to turn me into mist.

  When the end of the corridor comes into view, I see that it terminates into a large room. There are a few males standing around with blasters and a few males lounging on chairs and gambling at tables.

  “What the hell?” one of them says, and they’re last words as good as any, because I point the blaster at him and pull the trigger.

  There is the chaos of a good fight, and I begin to enjoy myself as I strike down the bastards that are running the pits. The glee of combat steals over me, and a rictus of a smile is plastered on my face as I bludgeon and beat them down. But just as we dispatch with the males who are in the room, a door opens and another wave of guards comes in, firing blasters indiscriminately.

  I duck down, hitting the floor hard. I crawl underneath an overturned table and aim my blaster. I fire at them, taking out several, but even as they fall to the ground, more and more come through the door to take their place.

  I’ve seen enough to know that if I stay here, I’m eventually going to get overrun. I have to make a move. I have to get out.

  I move forward a little at a time, pushing the table out in front of me for cover. I’m not sure how much cover it will provide against a blaster, but it couldn’t hurt, so I stay behind it.

  I get as close as I can and prepare myself to make my move. I’m still beaked up on bloodlust, and I throw myself toward the door. I blast as many of the guards as I can, but then all of a sudden I can’t feel my legs.

  I fall to the ground, unable to move my arms to break my fall. My head lands with a sickening, hollow thunk. One of the guards is looming over me, and I see that it’s either Metal-Tooth or else another Du’ix with the same dental implants. He’s got a knife instead of a blaster, which makes me think it’s the same Metal-Tooth guard as before, since I’m currently in possession of his blaster.

  “Nice try,” he says and raises his knife.

  BANTOKK

  My limbs are weak, either from a blow to the head or from some paralytic agent. I can only watch as he hovers above me. My last thought is of Lia. How the hell did one scared girl escape captivity? A whole retinue of fighters can’t even do it.

  Then, a long black blade appears in the center of his chest. It rips upward, the
n withdraws. As Metal-Tooth crumples to the ground, I see the Kraxxoid standing behind. Not a blade, but the sharpened stinger concealed beneath his exoskeleton. I nod to him, but he’s already turned around, engaged with another guard. I pick up my blaster and find that I’m able to move my limbs. I stay close to the ground, crawling alongside the walls. In a blur of blows and blasts and blood, I somehow manage to make it outside into daylight. There is chaos outside the pits, the crowd having heard of the melee and scattering to try and catch a glimpse of it.

  I’m able to push through the crowd and find refuge in a darkened tavern. I know it won’t last long, but I stand there trying to regroup. My belt and waist-pouch are gone. I have no coin, no comm device, no vehicle.

  As I’m scanning the tavern, one of the patrons raises his hand, signaling for another drink. And it’s none other than Pior.

  I walk up to him, restraining the urge to kill him outright. That can come later, but for now I need him.

  “Hello, friend,” I say in his language. “Not going to watch the fights?”

  His eyes are wide, but it’s obvious that he’s drunk and his senses are dulled.

  The tavernkeeper gives me a terrified look but says nothing when he sets down Pior’s drink. Pior grabs for it, but I slide it away from him. “Not yet,” I say. “You need to tell me where Lia is. Then you need to give me your ship. If you do that, you can live.” I have no intention of letting him live, but a drunk’s hope is powerful.

  “I’m sorry,” he says and bursts out into a sob. “I had no choice.”

  I was not expecting this. A fight, yes. Him to take one look at me and run out of the tavern, yes. But not tears.

  “Everyone always has a choice. It’s about the only thing that we do have.”

  “No, I don’t,” he bawls. “My daughter, they took my daughter.”

  That gives me pause. He’s too drunk, too sloppy, his grief too genuine. They took his daughter? The Rulmek? The cartels that run the fighting pits?