Human Pet Pound: Possessive Aliens

by Renard, Loki

  “Why do you keep your money with Galactor?” I change the subject with an artful, but valid question.

  “Scythkin sects are hardly stable. Galactor offers a safe location for our funds. We simply have to keep the true beneficiaries of the funds a secret. Usually we would enlist a third party to make withdrawals, but we don’t have anybody.”

  “So, you kill the Galactor people and then you give them your money.”

  “We have had some battles with Galactor, but we don’t go out of our way to destroy them.”

  I have heard otherwise. I heard that the explosion which destroyed Earth, shattered it right down at the temporal level, and sent bits of it spiraling throughout the universe, was created in a fight between scythkin forces and Galactor.

  “You have a really complex approach to things for a species hell bent on total domination and destruction.”

  “The universe requires a certain adaptation to complexity for any species to be able to survive,” he says, slipping into his suit.

  Those suits are so damn weird, but damn if they're not effective.

  He is now six feet tall. I have no idea how a costume can manipulate height, and I’m fairly sure I wouldn’t understand the physics if it were explained to me. At any rate, he’s six feet tall and a deep gray hue. His legs are where his arms should be, which is to say he appears to be walking on his hands. His butt is in the air, and his face is between his arm thighs. It’s a very weird configuration, and I have no idea how such a creature would toilet itself, let alone have a meal.

  “You decided to go as a bastardi?”

  “Yes,” he says, his voice emerging from the place I’m used to seeing his cock come from. “Bastardi are hard for Galactor to get a read on. It’s the safest disguise. It’s also the species we decided to open the account under, so I have little choice. Today, my name is Saucepan Flannel.”

  “Of course it is.”

  “It’s fortunate we are on a general freight shuttle,” he says. “There are no scythkin signatures to detect, so we can fly right down to the planet and dock in their bays.”

  “This feels like a bad idea,” I murmur. I don't know why I feel that way. I have no evidence to back it up, but I can’t help but think Galactor can’t be this overall stupid. Even if the scythkin have been fooling them from time to time, you can’t base a financial strategy on tricking people. I know this, because I’ve been sold many times as a tame pet, and that’s never worked out for anybody. After a while, word started to get around about me, and let’s just say, the last guy who tried to sell me, well, it didn’t go so great for him.

  The closer we get to the planet, the worse I feel. Everything about this seems like a bad idea. The plan depends on literally everybody else being very, very stupid, and I’ve never had a plan go well when it depended on that. But John doesn’t want my feedback. He thinks he knows better than me and hopefully he does, because if the two of us are going to step into a world of beings who think it is okay to sell me and probably kill him, then we’re going to need more than luck on our side. We’re going to need to be right.

  “It’s the only idea,” he says. “I need the riches of my clutch to avenge my brood and destroy the Q’Ren.”

  And I need to get the hell away from this revenge-driven scythkin before he gets us both killed, but I’m not going to tell him that. It feels disloyal, but the only loyalty I truly owe is to my own survival, which does not seem guaranteed with John.

  BLEEP BLOOP BLORP!

  “There’s a transmission coming through. Remember, you are my pet and I am your bastardi owner.”

  I nod and he hits the transmission accept option. Moments later, we are treated to a splash screen displayed across the monitor, a sparkly purple G over which a voice booms in rich tones.

  “Welcome, to you who have come to Planet Zombo. Your personal murketeer is waiting to give you personalized service to guide you through your experiences here on Planet Zombo. The infinite is not knowable, but your desires will be known, and thoroughly satisfied before you leave. Meet your personal murketeer, Crapplungdebt!”

  A picture appears on the screen, making me recoil instantly with the kind of instinct which comes from deep in my DNA. I am naturally afraid of snakes, heights, and whatever the fuck that is. It is at least eighty percent smile by body weight.

  “What the fuck is that?”

  “That’s a murketeer, ostensibly the friendliest species in all the universe. But you can’t trust them any more than you can read the ultra-micron small print on their contracts.”

  “Uh, I wasn’t going to. It looks like it is going to eat me.”

  The murketeer’s mouth is open in that big gurning smile and on closer, reluctant inspection, I note that they have big, flat teeth, sort of like a cow.

  “They won’t eat you. They feed on pure bureaucracy. Their species evolved to devour red tape.”

  “Wow. That’s insane.”

  “The universe is nothing but niches and life to fill them,” he says in a philosophical tone. “You have nothing to fear, Itch. I am going to look after you. You won’t be in danger.”

  He’s wrong. I am in danger. I can feel it in the pit of my stomach. I always know when I am in danger. It’s a hollow feeling which grows the longer I am in danger. It also causes an immediate and unrelenting desire to relieve myself, which I excuse myself to do.

  When I emerge from the bathroom, we are no longer alone. The ship’s door has been opened and the creepy little creature from the picture is standing inside. John is well hidden inside his suit, looking for all the world like a friendly bastardi and I… I don't like this one bit.

  He beckons to me with his foot. I go to him and he picks up my leash, clipping it to my collar. I take a deep breath. This is it. I’m caught, captured, and chained.

  “Ah, you have a human pet! How wonderful,” the murketeer congratulates John. “It is an honor to welcome you both to Planet Zombo.”

  “Fuck off,” John says by way of formal bastardi welcome.

  The murketeer is clearly aware of bastardi customs because his smile doesn’t even waver.

  “We hope you enjoy your stay! If there is anything I can do for you at any time, feel free to call on me. I will be following you at a distance of no more than three steps at any time.”

  “Drink acid,” John replies politely, elevating his middle finger in a sharp upward motion.

  The smile never leaves the murketeer’s face. I don't think it is possible for one of these things to stop smiling. That makes me want to try. I would say something, but for the fact that John has me on a tight leash, the end of it securely wrapped around his prehensile ankle.

  “We understand you're here to make a withdrawal from your account. I would be pleased to facilitate that, but first perhaps you would care to sample some of our attractions? The attainable is after all, unknowable here on Planet Zombo.”

  “Slather yourself in paint and roll down the stairs,” John says courteously. “Give me my money.”

  “Very well, sir, if you will step onto this platform of floating dreams, you will be transported through fields of endless delight all the way to the bank.”

  The murketeer points outside the ship to a pink disc floating nebulously in space. I am sure it is held up by solid science, but I don’t want to get on it. Unfortunately, nobody cares what I want. I have been officially relieved of the right to make decisions for myself.

  John leads me onto the platform, and we fly off through a general mishmash of colors which are floating around the place. It’s like being inside a lava lamp.

  “Stay calm,” John murmurs to me. “This doesn’t have to take long. It should be less than an hour and we can be back on the ship.”

  8 The Withdrawl

  Itch

  “The entire amount, sir?”

  We are in a bank. Like all banks, it is faintly depressing and highly institutional, and of course it has security. There are guards at the door, spiky things, and there ar
e weapons, and there are a lot of murketeers, all gathered to feed on the bureaucracy, I think.

  “Drill a hole in your head and fill it with bees,” John replies, nodding his stomach.

  “Absolutely. I will need to check with a manager, of course.”

  “I will set this building on fire,” John agrees.

  I am enjoying his comments, but I am also looking for a way out. It’s tearing me apart to think about leaving his side, but I know I have to. We have no future together. He is a scythkin bent on vengeance, and I am a human who needs to get a life. A real life, not one in relation to some male who wants to make me his possession and maybe use me to infiltrate a terrorist group.

  The teller returns with what looks like a silver chip. He slides it over the counter to John. “Here you are. The entirety of your account has been downloaded into universal credits.”

  “Boils,” John replies with appropriate formality. “Boils and toe fungus.”

  The murketeer bows low. John salutes him with his middle finger. The transaction is complete. I breathe a sigh of relief. Maybe I’m not going to be able to escape John this very moment, but we are at least on our way off this planet. I have not been comfortable for a single second since we got here.

  As we attempt to leave the bank, burly guards block our way.

  “How lovely!” John exclaims from inside his bastardi costume. “What a wonderful surprise!”

  He’s upset, and he has every reason to be. I have that feeling I get when everything is about to turn to total shit.

  “I am so sorry for the inconvenience, sir,” a murketeer with a big gold medallion in the shape of a ‘G’ around his neck, says, appearing smoothly out of the near ether with the kind of alacrity one cannot trust.

  “If you’re sorry for the inconvenience, then stop inconveniencing me.”

  “We cannot let you leave.”

  "Why not?”

  “Your pet has been reported stolen.”

  “Fuck,” I hear him swear the very human curse underneath his breath.

  This is exactly what I was afraid of. The moment that murketeer saw me, he started investigating me. No alien can look at a human without trying to work out a way to claim her. In my case, it’s not hard. I have a record of incarceration as long as John’s bastardi toes. All they had to get was a single cell to work out who I am. They could have taken it off the platform, or plucked a fallen hair. John should have seen this coming, but he was too busy thinking about money.

  “Poison yourself immediately. She’s not stolen. I won her in a game of Klatcsch,” he lies swiftly and aggressively.

  “According to our records, her owner was murdered.”

  “I didn’t say I didn’t also murder him.”

  The murketeer’s smile grows wider. “Galactor recognizes changes in ownership by many means, but all human pets must be registered to their current owners.”

  “Why? Put your shoes inside an oven and bake at 350 degrees for one hour.”

  That one was closer to nonsense than an insult. John must be panicking. I don’t like what will happen if he panics.

  The murketeer’s smile falters. It was not ready for that question.

  “Those are the regulations, sir.”

  He glances at me, and I know there is a problem. I start to look for ways out of this room, but all I end up noticing is how we’ve managed to corner ourselves in a dead end. This banking room is like an appendix. It sort of sticks out away from the planet. I suppose it could be considered to afford a beautiful view, but it seems threatening now. The windows reveal nothing but space outside, the kind of space which sucks your lungs out through your nose and freezes you instantly. Or so I have heard.

  John

  “Unfortunately, all humans remain the property of the Galactor corporation. Under the current regulations, we must reclaim the human until her ownership can be officially determined. This process will take a minimum of three months.”

  They do not fear me, because they do not know what I truly am. They believe me to be civilized. They expect me to behave normally. And it is in my best interests to continue to let them think that.

  I could leap out of my suit, slay them all, reclaim Itch and then we could both be slaughtered in absolutely romantic fashion. Yes, I could kill everybody in this room. And yes, I could kill everybody we encounter between here and the ship, but at some point, the might of the Galactor remote targeting forces will get a lock and we will both be vaporized.

  “Very well,” I say.

  Itch is looking at me with an expression of pure betrayal. I know she expected a repeat of the performance in the pound. It takes supreme effort to not tear my way out of the suit and sell my life dearly, but I cannot afford to be stupid.

  “No! Don’t let them take me!” she screams as the murketeers and their minions reclaim her for Galactor. My blood boils at the sight of their hands on her skin, and my stomach churns seeing the very real fear on her face.

  I can’t risk her getting hurt when the fighting starts, if the fighting starts. I cannot explain my thinking to her. There is no time, no privacy, and no chance to let her know she is not being abandoned. I have to hope that she trusts me, but the look of betrayal on her face is one I won’t forget for a very long time.

  “You’re free to go, sir.”

  “I will gut you and suspend you from your innards,” I tell the murketeer. I am not channeling bastardi custom. I am making a very real promise.

  Itch

  Fuck this. Fuck everything.

  I am not going to allow myself to be taken back into captivity. I am going to fight for all I am worth. If John will not fight for me, I will fight for myself.

  The murketeers can’t keep ahold of my squirming, flailing form. I bite and I fight, and I make them bleed. My anger does not only come from being captured, but from being betrayed. He let them take me. He didn’t even try to stop them. He did absolutely nothing.

  The scrimmage is violent and it is desperate. If John is going to abandon me, then I am going to lose my shit. I am going to lose everything. I don’t care if I survive. If I can’t be free, I’ll die.

  They use their electric prods, but I ignore the pain. I tear out of their hands and I run. I am faster than they are. I am far more desperate to escape than they are to keep me. Outside the bank is a rainbow path which splits into a dozen discrete colors. I choose the green, running as fast as I can down the winding, green spiral which goes god knows…

  PLANET ZOMBO BOTANICAL KITCHENS, a sign declares.

  PLEASE KEEP OFF THE GLASS, another sign adds.

  I find myself inside a grove of twisted metal wire ‘trees’ which seem to be ‘growing’ colanders and teacups. Spoon bushes clank and tinkle as my legs brush past them in my mad dash for freedom. I have no idea how I am going to survive here, but I know I will survive free. Tears are gleaming in my eyes, making it slightly harder to see, but I am determined to make my final escape.

  This is a ridiculous planet, but behind all the Galactor crap, there must be remnants of what came before. I will live under a rock and eat grass if it comes to that.

  But I can’t find any grass. I can’t find anything organic whatsoever. The whole of this planet has been paved, plasticated, and remade in the image of some strange version of a garden. This appears to be some kind of show room. I’m sure everything in it is for sale. Including me.

  I make my way past walls of glass and streams of strainers, through to a more covered area where fabric flaps from wire holders. These are trees made of tea towels, each of them patterned with various variations of the letter G. I crouch down in a particularly dense part, and try to catch my breath.

  Tears are coursing down my cheeks. I am so utterly miserable. I was planning on running away, but I never expected to be abandoned. I thought John really cared about me.

  Pulling a tea towel free, I dab my tears and tell myself that I’m better off without him. But I know that’s a lie. I’ve known it’s a lie since I
started telling myself that shortly after we met. Somewhere in the back of my mind, and the depths of my heart, I hoped I would somehow find happiness with him.

  That was stupid. Nothing nice happens to me. There are occasional reprieves from complete misery, but they only seem to exist in order to make the horrible things feel even worse. The universe has it in for me, and it can fuck off, as far as I am concerned.

  “She’s over here!”

  I stop crying long enough to hear pursuers. When I peek through the gently swaying towels, I see that there are two murketeers coming in my direction. They are holding some kind of device which appears to be tracking me, judging by the way they are homing in on my location. One of them has a very large net, which I am guessing they intend to trap me in.

  I am going to be caught again. It is inevitable. Nobody is ever going to let me go. Except, apparently, John the scythkin, who is probably already spending his money on a new ship.

  The closer the murketeers get, the more desperate I become. Dashing from the tea towel trees, I enter the glade of cutlery, where I grab a butter knife and a teaspoon, and I prepare to carve my way to freedom. The murketeers aren’t fighters. They’re not human catchers, and they're not ready for what I will do to them.

  “Come out, human! We would like to catch you.” The murketeers begin by trying to talk me into their net.

  “Go away!” I shout back. “Leave me alone!”

  “We cannot go away. You are a valuable and also feral species and we can only keep you in a contained area. You’re not permitted in the botanical kitchens. Come with us and get in a cage.”

  “No! And if you get any closer, I will scoop your eyes out with my spoon!”

  “I don’t want my eyes scooped out with a spoon,” one murketeer says to the other.