by T. S. Ryder
Their son grew up fast – faster than a human child. He seemed to be two years old when he was actually six months. He was an unusually intelligent kid with bright blue eyes and dark hair. Merelith predicted that he would grow to be a strong warrior, stronger than other Drakonaars as he was a half-blood prince. Ella knew that she was finally home, and she was eternally grateful for that.
*****
THE END
Caged by the Barbarian
Description
I am the prize in a cruel game. And these barbarians are killing each other to win me
What is Bond, warlord of the T’Shav, supposed to do when the woman to play the Goddess in the Fifth Cycle Festival turns out to be his mate? Throw himself into the arena of course, cutting down his competitors with savage joy. This woman belongs to him.
Lieutenant Sara O’Neill has one big secret: she’s human. After hiding her humanity her entire life, she is caged as the prize in a deadly, bloody game. She’ll be owned by the winner, his to do with whatever he pleases. Usually, that means being killed and eaten.
There’s no way that she’ll want this brute with his violent tendencies. Until she does.
But Bond has a mission to complete and he won’t be distracted. Yeah, right. That’s not happening when he’s stuck on a small spaceship with a curvy, delicious human.
Turns out someone’s out to claim her and his unborn young. Doesn’t the enemy know what happens when they get on Bond’s nerve?
Forced together, Bond and Sara have to fight the odds, focus on the mission and keep their hands off each other. Let’s see if they succeed... at that last part at least.
Chapter One: Sara
The controls shook in Lieutenant Sara O'Neill’s hands as she fought to keep the ship on course. The sudden pressure shift of entering the atmosphere caused it to buck from side to side. If she didn't keep its nose down, streamlined, she'd end up among the ash orbiting the planet. Her teeth clenched as the bright greens and blues of the planet's surface rushed towards her in the view screen.
"Ozone layer cleared," her computer coolly informed her.
Sara yanked on the controls, flipping the engines from forward to reverse thrust. It was a maneuver guaranteed to shut them off immediately in atmospheric conditions. The ship jerked and the hum of her engines cut out. Good. The engines were too powerful to be this close to the planet's surface; they'd propel her deep under the planet's exterior.
The smaller thrusters were already on. Sara reached out to either side, manipulating levers to slow her descent. She operated this stupid ship comfortably with two people, but in most situations required more. The ship she had wanted to buy would have been much easier to handle on her own.
Damn payroll cuts, Sara thought furiously as the control panel lit up, warning her of the imminent collision.
A string of curses flew out of Sara's mouth as she lowered the landing gear. If this didn't work, she'd end up a smear on the planet's surface – an example of what not to do when the Corps trained next year's students.
"Impact in ten seconds," the computer said. "Ten."
Sara threw the thrusters on full blast, flinching when the whole ship shuddered. Screeching metal tore at her ears.
"Nine."
The lights flickered.
"Eight."
"Come on," Sara hissed. She was still going way too fast.
"Seven."
She abandoned the flight controls and rushed to cargo and disposal.
"Six."
Sara's hands flew over a panel, opening up the garbage and waste ports.
"Five."
"Activate emergency waste expulsion," she shouted.
The propulsion of waste from the ports jerked the ship upright, throwing Sara to the ground. The control panels sparked and several rivets popped overhead. She curled into the fetal position as loose items were thrown all about. A solid thud had her rolling across the floor, trying to brace herself against the walls.
"Landing complete," the computer said.
Sara waited a moment to let the chairs stop rolling before she stood. Another curse escaped her as she took in the damage. Black scorch marks pocked the controls, and more than one lever looked like it had melted into place. So, the controls were fried and, no doubt, the thrusters were shot after that. At least she was in one piece. She put a hand to her chest, her heart pounding, and let out a shaky laugh.
"Shall I give you a damage assessment?" the computer asked.
"Nah, not right now. What's around here? I want to make sure I haven't dropped into Munchkin land and squashed their mayor. Or the Wicked Witch of the West. I'm in no mood for quests..."
There was a brief pause. "There appears to be a temporary encampment with vessels faster than the speed of light nearby. Would you like a map?"
Sara shook her head. "They'll find me. I'd like to stay safe inside here until I know whether they're friendly or not."
The computer didn't respond to that. Not that that was surprising. These older models were programmed to be functional, not friendly. The new Soundbolts had a computer that would congratulate you on your singing skills, but this rust bucket interacted at the bare minimum. It made for a very arduous journey between the stars.
It was all she could afford on her salary, though, and there was no way in Satan's menstrual cramps that she was staying on the Corps base she was assigned to. The space station orbited a backwater moon and she needed some excitement. That was why she had taken off to the aptly-named Planet Adventure, which was basically Disneyland, only a gazillion times bigger. Sara had blown all her savings on the two-week stay. She had thought it was worth it until her engine cut out over this planet.
"Hey, where are we, anyway?"
"Rozaist, Hockorn system."
Rozaist? Sara shook her head. This was a planet where the religious crazies went. Not that she had anything against believers, but mass hordes of rioters demanding opposite-species relationships be made illegal set her teeth on edge. Rozaist wasn't part of the United Species, though, and as such was fair game to anybody who wanted a piece of it. The Corps was occasionally called to settle squabbles here, but they didn't technically have any jurisdiction. More often than not, it was one warlord or another who offered the planet 'protection' and implemented their own sort of justice. Hopefully, her position in the Corps would give her some protection against the locals.
That thought flew out the window when the lights went out. The displays shut down and Sara found herself in utter silence. Even the usual hum of air circulation had stopped. She sat, bewildered, for a moment, but the answer came to her quickly.
Pirates.
With a curse, she drew her issued blaster gun and turned on the built-in light that she insisted on adding, despite her colleagues' scoffs. It was an old habit, leftover from her days back on Earth, before she ended up out here.
Don't think about that, Sara told herself harshly. Earth is gone.
She found herself a defensible position and hunkered down, adjusting her bionic eyes to register heat signatures. Five of them lurked just outside the ship. There was a wheezing noise, the sound of air being released. Too late Sara realized that the air vents were active again, pumping in a gas of some sort. Her head swam, bright lights flashing across her vision, and she slumped to the floor.
Don't let them find out I'm human.
***
Light stabbed into her eyes when she woke, but the bionics adjusted so quickly that Sara only had a brief moment of discomfort. The first thing she noticed was that she was still wearing her uniform. Good. Then she hadn't been taken by slavers to be auctioned off at the market. If she had been, they would have either stripped her bare or put her in provocative clothing.
Her curvy, muscular build and thick waist were considered beautiful for women out here, despite the ideal for men being stick-thin. If she wanted to, she could have been a model or actress – any number of things. But she was a military girl. It was all she knew in her life bef
ore coming to the stars and all she wanted now.
The lieutenant glanced around, taking in her surroundings. She was in a cage with bars made of flickering blue energy, separating her from an office of sorts. Shelves filled with trinkets that ranged from glowing stones to taxidermy animals ringed the space. The walls were covered in a chevron pattern.
There was a huge purple desk to one side of the room, behind which sat an alien. His skin was the sickly color of foam at the bottom of a polluted waterfall. When she stirred, he looked up. His extra-wide mouth smiled, all three of his eyes crinkling at the sides. A Trioeil. Yuck. These slimy creatures considered themselves sentient beings and every other species in the galaxy as their rightful slaves.
"Ah, good," the Trioeil said, the translation chip embedded behind Sara's ear twinging as it adjusted to his language. "Our Goddess is awake."
Sara drew herself up as best as she could in the minimal space and glared at the Trioeil. "I am Lieutenant Sara O'Neill of the United Species Corps. What you are doing—"
"The Corps has no jurisdiction here, m'lady," the alien said, waddling around his desk on flat feet. He was oddly bulky for a Trioeil. Usually, they resembled bobble-heads: oversized heads on a broomstick bottle. This one, though, looked like he could hold his own in an arm-wrestling match. "But forgive me, m'lady, as I'm sure we are most fortunate to meet you. I can see by your beautiful blue skin and golden eyes that you are Aphrosian. A beautiful specimen to be the Goddess for the Fifth Cycle Festival."
Sara's stomach dropped. Since she had woken up in a ship hundreds of thousands of years after her abduction from Earth, she had learned that the galaxy was a brutal place. Technological development did not guarantee social development.
"The Goddess," she whispered, feeling like she was about to be sick.
The Fifth Cycle Festival was an ancient tradition among several cultures. In it, a woman was chosen to play the Goddess, bound to fleshy form, and men would hold a competition, killing each other until only one remained. He became the God and the Goddess was his to do with what he wanted. The Festival had been banned by the United Species years ago, as it was common practice for the 'Goddess' to be killed and eaten by the 'God'.
Bile rose up the back of her throat, but Sara refused to panic. She was a trained soldier. She knew how to defend herself from one man if it came to that. Besides, she had more immediate concerns.
If the Trioeil ran any deep scans on her, he would learn very quickly that she wasn't Aphrosian at all. The full-skin, deep blue tattoo she had and the golden shade of her bionic eyes was enough to fool most people, but the truth was in her DNA. She was human, a rare and pricy commodity.
All the species that Sara knew about were the distant descendants of humans. For the past forty-five standard years–or thirty years, according to Earth time–humans had been popping up all over the place in light-speed ships, preserved by stasis pods and the temporal distortion that happened when a ship travelled at light speed. Most of these humans were now in private collections or being dissected by research companies. Few found a peaceful welcome.
"We have a good crop of men wishing to be the God this year," the Trioeil told her gleefully. "It will be good sport to watch."
"I'm not of that faith," Sara said, trying to keep her voice calm. "But I am a member of the Corps. If you don't let me go, you’ll have to deal with the whole force of the United Species."
The Trioeil made a motion with his hands equivalent to a shrug. "I'll be gone before they get here. I'm just here to collect the donations for the Church and officiate the Festival. Now, do try to smile. The Goddess should be happy."
There had to be a way out of this. Sara sucked in a deep breath, trying to quell the panic beating at her chest. It would be useless to try to break out of the cage. It would only hurt her so much that she couldn't fight even if she did manage to free herself.
Fight.
Sara rubbed her arms, thinking over everything she knew about the Fifth Cycle. The man who won was supposedly favored by the Goddess, and that's why he won. But if the female chosen to be the Goddess didn't approve of the man, then she could challenge him herself.
So that was it. Sara let out her breath. It was a desperate, last-ditch plan, but it was at least a plan. She needed to find a way out of here before the Festival started. But if worst came to worst, she would challenge the winner to a duel. No doubt he would be a huge, muscle-bound brute that she wouldn't stand a chance against. But if he were exhausted from fighting…
It was worth the chance, wasn't it?
"Is there anything I can get for you, m'lady?" the Trioeil asked. "The Festivals are about to start."
"Already?" Sara's heart dropped.
"Yes. We are most fortunate, indeed… Until you fell from the sky there was no woman fit to be the Goddess." His wide smile widened further. "It must be divine intervention."
Sara closed her eyes. Great. Just great. Well, fighting it would be.
Chapter Two: Tom
One of the benefits of being a T'shav was that everybody assumed that you were waiting for the tiniest excuse to disembowel them. Thus, they tended to bend over backward trying to please you.
Tom enjoyed the way that the other customers at the power station simply melted out of his way as he strode towards the pay counter. It was a good thing, too, because he had no patience for long waits today. He was two days behind on his mission due to a micro asteroid splitting through his shields. Damn thing had torn a hole through his reserve power tank.
"Two helixes of power for Bond," he ordered, using the fake name he always employed when he was out on secret missions.
The Dibat standing at the power bar, yellow-skinned with warts all over his ugly face, nodded and tapped a few commands into the holographic bar. These days most civilized locations also had food, drink, and entertainment available when repowering a ship, but this little place had a few holographic ads to look at and nothing else. But, then, what else could be expected from the backend of the galaxy like Rozait?
"It'll just be five beats of the drum," the Dibat squeaked.
Tom sent the alien an annoyed glance. "And what is that in standard time?"
"Three hours."
Tom grunted. Slower than what he was used to. The hadron particles were probably not as pure, either, but what could he do about it? Beating the Dibat wasn't going to do any good except, perhaps, give him some brief sense of satisfaction. He stepped aside, letting the other customers approach the bar. Idly, he glanced over the ads as he headed outside.
The image of a blue-skinned woman that suddenly flashed over the wall made him freeze. On first glance, she appeared to be Aphrosian, but she was far too curvy to be of that species. He admired her build for a moment. She wore a USC uniform, but even the layers of bulk couldn't hide the fact she was all curves and muscle. Her shoulders were almost as broad as his own.
When Tom made his way to her face, his heart skipped a beat. It would have been embarrassing, except that everything besides that face had melted away. Her eyes were determined and angry, her full, kissable mouth set, her chin raised defiantly. He wanted to throw her onto a table, tear off her clothes, and explore her body until he found the spots that made her arch her back to him. He wanted to seat himself inside her, to find where he belonged–where he had always belonged, where he would forever belong. With her. His Starmate. He always knew he would find her, and now he had.
Tom's heart pounded shallowly as he managed to look at what the advertisement said about this beautiful, proud woman that housed the other half of his soul. A growl rose up in his chest as he read that she would be the Goddess for the Fifth Cycle Festival. The Goddess, to be fought over, and then used for whatever purpose the winner had planned for her.
Never.
Turning on his heel, Tom pushed his way through the customers, too impatient to wait for them to step out of his way this time. He slammed his hands down on the bar, making the Dibat jump, and glowered down at the little a
lien. His blood pumped, and he knew the red of his skin would look even redder. Good. The T'shav were often associated with demonic figures in other cultures, and that was certainly something he would use to his advantage here.
"How do I get in on the Festival Fight?"
The Dibat's jaw dropped. Tom didn't care what was going through the tiny creature's mind. When no answers were forthcoming, he leaned forward, growling as he narrowed his eyes. Still nothing, so he grasped the handle of the broadsword strapped to his back.
"You'll have to register! In the square. The Festival is about to start—"
Tom ignored the rest of the Dibat's squeals. He dashed from the power station, his heart pounding with both fear and excitement. He had found her. At long last, he had found his Starmate. He had been looking for her ever since he was a young boy. His parents had told him how souls were born in the stars but sometimes were separated into two parts when born into mortal bodies.
Now all he had to do was kill a bunch of men to get her. And if he lost? The thought made him smirk. I'm the son of a T'shav warlord who trained me to be a warrior. The only question is whether I sprain myself laughing as I cleave their heads from their shoulders.
He reached the square quickly. Dozens of men, from lean-figured Loeas to hulking, green-skin Faners, were streaming into an area that had been marked off by small silver disks. So it was to be a caged fight. Good. It would make disposing of his competition easier. He quickly paid the two helix quarks that were required to participate and strode in, the last of the competitors.
The men who caught sight of him inched away and Tom had to resist the urge to pity them. The battle was already half over, and they would be dead soon.
The loud, reverberating noise of a gong brought all their attention to a stout Trioeil standing on a platform overlooking the makeshift arena. Tom's breath caught in his throat. She was standing beside the Trioeil, golden chains around her wrists and ankles. The picture had done her no justice. They had edited out the subtle scar that marred her lower lip, making it dimple in half, as well as the scar above her left eye and the one showing just above her collarbone. She was all the more beautiful for these marks, showing that she had faced and survived at least one violent encounter.
