Taken to Voraxia

by Elizabeth Stephens

  Roots of trees and other plants often sprout from the floor of my own home. Sometimes I let them run wild, other times, I dig up their roots and replant them outside. But in the medical bay, they can bring infection, so it remains one of a few structures insulated from Voraxia’s wild glory.

  “Where are you going?” She asks in a very small voice, one that makes my second heart crumble in on itself, like a dying star.

  I clear my throat and do not answer her question. I do not wish to. Because the truth of the matter is that going anywhere from her feels like ripping off both my arms.

  “This is an open room. Often I use it for relaxation,” I say instead, gesturing to the pillows that form plush divans on the floor before us. Against the wall are a few shelves lined in antique scrolls from the ancient periods and passed down to me through my male and female sires and their sires before them, as well as holo pads and other modern communicators.

  Below that is a black stone chest, which gleams in the now fading orange light of the translucent water panels seated high in the walls above. “You can find fermented drink there, though it is strong and I recommend against it. If you are hungry or thirsty, you may drink from the well,” I say as we arrive in the cooking area.

  There is a fireplace to the right and a gamma radiator to the left. Cups and plates are stacked on the shelf that runs across the longest wall. Two spouts stand side-by-side and pour into deep copper basins, but as I speak I point to the bubbling fountain right of them that spurts up clean well water.

  “Water from the spouts is clean, but the well water is mineral rich so you might enjoy drinking this more, even if it is warm. You can place it in the heat tray there,” I point to one of the metal drawers mounted in the wall. “It has a cooling function which, given your expertise with the thermal gauge, I don’t doubt you will be able to decipher. Lastly, there is my training room. You will have no need of this room.”

  I give her a pointed look before moving across the relaxation room and down a wide, but short corridor to reach the room at the end of the hall. “And this is where I sleep. There is another sleeping quarter on the other side of the house and a third in the werro who shares its roots with this one, however, I do not maintain these. This is where you will sleep for now.”

  “For now?” She whispers, staring at the pallet, so unlike the one from the ship that we shared previously as this one is piled high with throws and furs. Sheets spun of the catacat mites on Eltin lie beneath, and the pillows that top the mass are of hand-plucked down from the calves of the calm wret creatures who trade us the down of their kits in exchange for fruits and corn.

  I had wanted this to be special for her. Our first lunar spent together in our home. One where I would suffer through the torture of abstaining from her, while still allowing myself the luxury of remaining close. Because despite what she thinks of herself and what she thinks of me and our pact, I intend to honor her still with the Rakukanna ceremony and will not mate with her until then.

  “Hexa,” I say, voice dark. “You will sleep here until the ceremony, where you will be presented to the Voraxian people. It will take place in three spans’ time. Until then I will sleep in my quarters in the House of Raku. I have many affairs to look after.”

  “Okay,” she says. But her arms have crossed over her chest and her shoulders are tucked under her ears and her body is angled in a way that tells me she is no longer looking at the sleeping furs but at what is hanging beside it.

  Rage. Shame. Grief. My body kicks with it and I do not know what I am meant to do with these treacherous feelings. There have been too many of them in too short a time. I cannot think. I feel unseated.

  No longer Raku, but unborn into Xoran, the weak youngling who sometimes fought battles that he lost. Raku does not lose. Raku is nothing but sure. I must vanquish this Xoran forever, but I must do something else first.

  I stride forward, careful not to brush the Rakukanna with my arm, even though nothing would give me greater pleasure.

  My skin tingles when we draw close to one another. It makes me stumble. I have to take a large step to correct it and that step brings me directly before the ceremonial breeding belt, one that I acquired from the Niahhorru illicitly, though I would never dare own to it.

  The strands are of the hair from a he’varr — an underwater creature the size of a werro tree root that exists in the ice flats of Nobu. The last one was killed over fifteen rotations ago by a Nobu warrior, who was later exiled to Niahhorru for his role in the failed Dra’Kesh invasion led by the previous Bo’Raku. His sire, and just as treasonous.

  Last rotation, I traveled to the Niahhorru planet of Kor and, under disguise, managed to track the warrior and his silks down and purchase them. They cost me more than any other piece of weaponry or technology I own, combined. And now they are worth nothing.

  I withdraw the ion short-sword that hides in the belt of my covering. Its sleek black surface flashes into being with a hiss and I hear a short gasp behind me instances before I hear a light whisper in front of me. I bring the sword down and shred the breeding belt in one stroke.

  I resheathe my sword and rip what remains of the delicate strands from their mounts in the branch-woven ceiling.

  Turning to face her, I say quietly, “You do not think yourself a slave. Or rather, you do not think yourself only a slave. You think yourself my whore.” The last of the pale white shreds flutters to the floor from my grip, pooling at my feet along with my pride.

  She meets my gaze and her strength surprises me, even if her honesty cuts me to the quick. “Hexa.”

  I close my eyes, tamp my nerves and fight not to allow ribbons of red to explode through my ridges. I must remain calm, even as I inhale the scent of jujji berries, so deeply. “It is not common for a Raku, but nothing about this arrangement is common, so I will extend myself and speak openly with you here.”

  I exhale and meet her gaze, even as I try not to get lost in it. “I was made aware of your moon colony in a review of my outer planets’ energy budgets. When I confronted Bo’Raku about the energy being supplied to your moon, he told me that there was a natural resource on the moon that made the energy supply worth the expense. I pressed, and when he resisted, I pressed harder. Bo’Raku told me only then of the Hunt.

  “Though this is not a custom we partake in here on Voraxia’s principle planet, forms of the Hunt are practiced on many of the others. On Cxrian, on Nobu. What Bo’Raku described to me, as his Raku, was a pact willingly made between your human leaders and the Dra’Kesh by the Bo’Raku before him.

  “I now understand the nature of this pact in its entirety. You have taught me this. Pact does not mean equal trade when there is an imbalance of power. Unlike the Hunt that takes place on Cxrian, or the similar Run of the Mountain that takes place on Nobu, your people never had a desire to participate. Your people’s pact with the Dra’Kesh was a forced trade. And now, the pact between you and I is also forced.”

  My tail snaps back and forth through the air, its black glass dagger tip itching to pierce flesh. Bo’Raku will suffer for this. “So there will be no pact. No Hunt. No trading of flesh between us. It is clear that you had no interest in this mating, even from the moment the Xanaxana came alive and presented us to one another as Xiveri mates, so I will not force you. I will not trade with you for what I wished you to willingly give. Because desire cannot be manufactured.” I remember the words she said to me just solars ago. Less. And I feel despair.

  “I will dishonor you no longer by remaining in your presence. These chambers are yours until the ceremony of the Rakukanna. You will need to remain confined to them until then. After, you will have free reign of your kingdom. At this stage, we will determine a suitable living arrangement that brings neither discomfort onto you, or shame onto our union.

  “I hope that this may please you and that it may serve as a sign of contrition for the acts of my kind against your humans, and of me against you. Though as for the latter, I never intended to di
shonor you. It dishonors me to do so and knowing that I have is a price I will pay for the remainder of my rotations.” I exhale. The world is silent. There is nothing but the sound of the werro growing around us. Nothing at all.

  Her lips part. I can read nothing of her facial ticks and cues. Is she pleased by this or is it grief that shines in her soft, vermillion features? There are no creases. Her tail is still. Her lips form neither an expression of pleasure or displeasure. She looks nowhere but into my gaze. Deep into my gaze where she pulls my Xaneru forth with her will alone.

  “No pact?” She says finally.

  My hearts yearn to know her mind, even as they sink like stones. “No pact.” I step up to her and bend so that I may speak into her ear. “Whatever you want Rakukanna, is already yours. And your friends, though traitors, will also want for nothing. Your people are safe. It may mean little to you, but I vow you this, on my honor.”

  I pause, waiting another breath for her to speak, but she doesn’t. She just tenses and turns her face to look up at me with those wide, open eyes framed by heavy, wondrous lashes. She is the most beautiful thing that I have ever seen. And she is mine. Nox. She is her own. And I cannot touch her.

  “Lemoria will return tomorrow during the span. Until then, you will be greeted by Mor’Rai who will tailor a menu to your tastes, Drakanna who will help you prepare for the ceremony, and Tri'Herion. He is our lead inventor,” I say, using the human word she had.

  “He will be curious about the device you created aboard my ship and will ensure that if you dismantle any more pieces of our home to generate new objects of mayhem or fancy, that you will do so safely. Be safe,” I finish, “This is the only command that I shall ever give you.”

  I turn and head for the door, and I do not wait for her words to chase me out. More likely than not I would be left waiting in a silence that would echo through the twisted shell of my writhing Xanaxana, and disintegrate me to dust. Down to the bone.

  I turn my back on my Xiveri mate, though every fiber of my being tells me to remain at her side, because only at her side can I be whole.

  12

  Raku

  It has been three solars. Three solars without seeing or touching or tasting or scenting my Rakukanna. Three solars of torture at not knowing what she ate, what strange expressions clouded her Dra’Kesh features, what she looked like while sleeping.

  What does she look like cradled among my furs? Do they complement her skin color as I had hoped they would? Does she nestle into them as she had my chest when I slept at her side once before?

  Instead I must face three solars of endless meetings that whither and fry the dwindling patience I have left. A shortening fuse, alight.

  I sit in front of Bo’Raku now, surrounded by six of the seven other xub’Rakus, in the war room. Nothing pleasant happens here. And it will not this span.

  “This is our Raku’s third meeting with you Bo’Raku, and it becomes no clearer how you exonerate yourself for the crimes perpetuated by yourself and your Bo’Raku before you.” Xa’Raku speaks with authority and force.

  Leader of the mineral-rich water planet Thrax, she is also my strongest diplomat. There is no other I would trust to act as my voice while I sit passively, forearms lining the arms of the high-backed seat made of smooth, dry werro root. Watching.

  My Raku before me charged in with accusations and rage. It was what made it possible for me to challenge and usurp him at so young an age. The male might have been my sire, but he was too quick, too rash, too angry, too impulsive.

  I learned early on that there is much more to gain from watching the ridges of the one seated opposite me at the negotiating table, the swish of their tail and the ticks of their claws, than through shouting and reckoning. Try as they might to hide, but in the throes of a debate, even the most stoic warlord will make a mistake.

  Bo’Raku leans forward on his stool, white hair rippling over his chest. I imagine that hair rippling over the skin of my Rakukanna were he to have had his chance to run for her in the Hunt and feel only rage.

  “Xa’Raku, there is no crime. These primitives are not fledged Voraxians.”

  He is not entirely wrong. This vexes me. But it does not matter. It will not be enough to save him.

  Xa’Raku snarls, “The offspring produced by the fertile females are Voraxian, as our Rakukanna is.”

  “But like savages they discard the babes. There is nothing I could have done to prevent them. The Rakukanna was — is — an exception.” His black eyes flash to mine and his white teeth whistle as deceit passes through them. He has practiced his answers. He is calm. “I had always intended to bring the hybrids here to Voraxia when they became of age. To you, my Raku. But there were none.”

  “And the other fertile females? You were content to let them die, along with the younglings they could not sire? You mean to tell us that you did not notice their lessening population?”

  “This was never raised as a concern to me by their council of elders. We did not keep records of the females because they are not Voraxian. Thus, there was nothing I could do.”

  I cannot bite my tongue any longer. I lift a hand. Xa’Raku settles back in her werro root seat, her own ridges bristling red. I wait for her ridges to settle, for all to settle. The room is eerie in its calm.

  In a quiet that contradicts, rather than bellies my rage, I say, “You will tell me how many of these Hunts you have taken part in, Bo’Raku.”

  “Five,” he answers. Six would have given him the opportunity to claim my Rakukanna. My Miari… To take from her what is only mine to take.

  “Five.” I exhale, “Five times you have felt the humans’ cream.”

  Bo’Raku’s ridges flicker white. “My Raku,” he says slowly, a question in his tone.

  “You will answer me if you have felt their tight hot cunts, full of cream five times.” I can sense the change in the atmosphere.

  This is dangerous talk and utterly indecent coming from their Raku, not least of all because it betrays an intimacy that can only be matched to my Rakukanna. Voraxian females produce no such cream, so there could be no other female that I am speaking of.

  I would not dare to divulge this knowledge of the humans to any but my most trusted advisors, and Bo’Raku, already having been through the Hunt. That which makes the humans more desirable makes them more vulnerable.

  But I need to unseat him. He is too comfortable in his werro root chair, across the circle from me, nothing but a barren stretch of packed earth between us and nothing keeping me from ripping his white hair from his body in patches of blood and brain matter. Nothing at all.

  “Hexa,” he answers finally, “I have felt it.” His ridges flash a breath of purple.

  I tamp mine down, locking them so that they are fixed and colorless. “So unlike the Dra’Kesh, and the Voraxians… Capable of withstanding great…pressure.”

  “Hexa.” He licks his mouth and I see the purple surface stronger in his ridges, and despise him for it.

  “And great pain.”

  “Hexa.”

  “It is a shame that they bleed from their breeding folds, otherwise, one could mount them for spans.”

  Bo’Raku’s face makes the pleasure expression. His ridges are a bright purple now, and an eerie black. “One can mount them for hours. The bleeding adds to the cream.” My core freezes, but I compel myself to nod. Even though I say nothing, he continues to speak. “They can be mounted against their will. They have no defenses. It makes them breedable by many species.”

  “I had not considered this,” I grit.

  Bo’Raku is leaning forward even further now, ridges flashing beaming as his subconscious wars and wins the fight to control the color. But he has no control. Just as he has no honor.

  “Hexa. They can be bred by any manner of creature. Even those as large and as brutal as the Niahhorru. Just think of the Niahhorru’s fertility crisis and the spoils we could win from them in exchange for even just one human female. The females can be bre
d many times over their rotations to produce many younglings. The riches the Niahhorru would trade for that power would be incalculable.”

  “Maybe even three percent of their profits each rotation,” I offer.

  “Three? Nox, my Raku.” He bellows out a pleasure sound that causes Xa’Raku’s plates to lift up from her flat chest. I need her calm, and am grateful that Bo’Raku’s focus remains on me.

  “The Niahhorru king would trade eighteen percent of their trading profits for the coordinates to the human settlement and with the condition that they visit once a rotation, take three women to breed and return them once the younglings have been born.

  “They would also take one human or hybrid every other rotation to sell at auction. Their barbarian leader believes that they could earn up to thirty million credits for one human female.”

  Thoughts of my Rakukanna are all that keep me in my seat. I long to launch myself across the war room and rip Bo’Raku’s tongue out through his teeth, but I can give my advisors no reason to believe that I am volatile or incapable of being anything but their Raku. Their strength. I must be strong for my people. All of my people. My Rakukanna’s included.

  I quiet, and glance around, wishing that Va’Raku were here for this moment that I take Bo’Raku down. Bo’Raku’s pleasure expression begins to fade and as he sits back in his seat, I lean forward in my own.

  “Bo’Raku, I hereby move to strip you of your title.”

  His ridges flutter white in surprise and confusion and I hate him for such a confusion. That he could think I would ever condone, let alone enjoy, the suffering of another — of a female, of my. Xiveri. mate.

  I allow one burst of color to surface on my brow, knowing it immediately for the color that it is not just by my own inner turmoil, but my Bo’Raku’s now visible agitation and his fear.

  Black as the abyss of space. Thirsty for blood. His. Bo’Raku’s own ridges dull until they are colorless. His body tenses and his colors flash with violence. He now understands my ploy. But it does not matter. It is too late.